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OTHER BOOKS BY 
E. MARIA ALBANESI 


Love and Louisa^ Peter y a Parasite 
Etc, 


SUSANNAH 

AND ONE OTHER 

BY 

E. MARIA ALBANESI 


ii 



“What is Nature unless there is an eventful human life passing 
within her ? Many joys and many sorrows are the lights and shad- 
ows in which she shows most beautiful.”— Thoreatt, MS. Diary. 

NEW YORK 

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. 
MCMI V 


UBR^KY CON6**ESS 
Two C«pl** Rooolvwl 

MAR 31 1904 

OfydgM tntiy 




■s^ 


COPTBIGHT, 1903, 1904 
By E. MAKIA ALBANESI 


PnbliBhed, March, 1904 


TO 


MRS. GEORGE BATTEN 




SUSANNAH 




4 


i 


I 

The moon, that is caprice itself, looked through the windows 
as thou wert sleeping in thy cradle, and said to herself, ‘That 
cliild pleases me.’ ” — Charles Baudelaire. 

I T was the moment of the dawn on an August morn- 
ing. Overhead the light was breaking almost im- 
perceptibly through the softest of grey mists ; 
along the . horizon faint gleams of palest gold were 
stretching themselves in straight lines, against which 
the myriad trees in the orchard seemed to stand out un- 
compromisingly clear; the air was soft and moist, and 
deliciously fresh, and from the meadows and fields there 
came a pungent, warm, earthy scent. As the clock 
somewhere in the distance chimed the half-hour, Susan- 
nah straightened herself and stretched out her arms, 
yawning a little as she did so. The large flat-bottomed 
basket that stood on the rough grass a yard or so away 
was piled with mushrooms, and still the ground was 
studded as far as the eye could reach with the delicate 
cream-brown umbrellas of the fairies. 

Susannah’s feet were wet, and her skirt was drenched 
at the hem with dew. She had been sleeping with one 
eye open since midnight, so that she might not let slip 
this chance of marauding successfully. Even as she 
paused to straighten her back, the yellow streaks behind 

3 


4 SUSANNAH 

the trees (over where the marshland seemed to touch the 
skylir had become more luminous. There was an opal- 
escent cloud surrounding them, and then very, very 
softly there spread up from the horizon an exquisite 
rose-red blush, as though the morning was shy to make 
its greeting to the world. 

“ Half-past four, and not a soul moving yet,” said 
Susannah, as she picked up her basket and turned to go 
back through the apple trees. “ Now, the best thing I 
can do is to get indoors, and hide these in the larder.” 

Nevertheless, she dawdled on the way; she had a sort 
of delighted sensation upon her that the world belonged 
to her in this hour. 

It was a land of enchantment. The apple trees, with 
their burden of palest green, and gold, and red-skinned 
fruit, seemed aglow with the kiss of the dawn; beyond 
them at the edge of the larger kitchen-garden stood a 
row of poplars. These were the guard of her fairy 
court, the apple trees were the courtiers. For jewels 
there was the glitter of the dew on the grass, for music, 
the chatter of the birds, broken every now and then by 
the clear sweet call of the blackbird and the luscious 
thrill of the thrush, whose golden note would be silent 
later, when the day was at its full heat. 

When Susannah came to the old log, from which the 
sheep had gnawed the bark, and against which the lambs 
for many generations had cultivated a trick of rubbing 
their coats, she sat down. 

“ This is my throne ! ” she said. 

ghe delighted in these fancy thoughts, and as she 


CHAPTER ONE 5 

put the basket of mushrooms at her feet she gave herself 
up wholly to the delicate imagery of her mind, and to 
the joy of watching the sun rise. 

It seemed to her imagination that the rows and rows 
of trees in the apple-orchard were all bending to do 
homage to that wondrous light from the East. Even 
the birds’ voices seemed hushed, or perhaps she did not 
hear them. 

The glory of the rising sun magnetized her. It was 
as though her soul itself were drawn from her, as little 
by little the blush of the dawn melted into mist, and 
only that great globe of fire rode triumphantly in the 
heavens. 

The world was changed now. 

The grey dreamland, the mystery, had vanished; a 
broad clear light fell upon the orchard, picking out the 
haunts of the birds, discovering the harvest of fallen 
apples (a veritable feast later on for the old sow and her 
nine pigs), catching the glint of the brook that ran in 
the distance, and making the thousands of mushrooms 
spread themselves into a soft, cream-white carpet over 
the rough grass, dainty, and inviting for a fairy to 
tread upon. 

The distant chime of the clock striking the hour in 
clear musical tones aroused Susannah sharply. 

“Five o’clock!” she exclaimed. And she jumped to 
her feet and picked up her big burden. 

She glanced about her. No one was very near, but 
from the farm came many sounds now that told her the 
day’s work had commenced. 


6 SUSANNAH 

Turning away from the garden, Susannah Went into 
the paddock. 

The cows were being driven to the shed to be milked. 
A long-legged youth was in charge of them. 

He touched his cap to Susannah, and pretended not 
to see the mushrooms, but she held them out to him, and 
laughed. 

“ You won’t tell tales, will you, Jack.?^ ” 

The boy coloured, and handled his switch nervously. 

“ Why didn’t ’ee ask me, miss ? ” he said. I’d have 
got ’em for ’ee.” 

“ Yes ; and have got something else too,” said Susan- 
nah lightly, “ if Spens had seen you at it. Besides, I 
wanted to have the fun of picking them myself. You 
can carry them, though, if you like,” she added with an 
audible sigh, for her back still ached a little, and the 
handle of the heavily weighted basket cut into her 
slender arm. 

The cows were passing into line. 

There was one, small in size and red-brown in colour, 
that would persist in putting down its head and uttering 
low, ominous murmurs, or they sounded ominous to 
Susannah, who could never outgrow her fear of homed 
beasts. 

The black cow with the white patches had set off at a 
trot, and bellowed a good deal as she went. 

From far off came the bleating of the calves, 
those enchanting little creatures, with their legs too 
long, and their soft black muzzles, and their soulful 
eyes. 


CHAPTER ONE 7 

The black cow with the wliite patches had two waiting 
for her, so no wonder that she was in a hurry. 

It always made Susannah’s heart beat a little quickly 
when she heard that mother-note in the sound that the 
big animal gave, as she went from the paddock to the 
cowshed. 

Jack carried the basket of mushrooms up to the 
kitchen entrance, and then slouched away. 

“ I am deadly tired,” said Susannah to herself. “ I 
shall never dare to say so. Sophie will be nasty enough 
as it is if she hears of this ; but it was too delicious out 
there, and I have been dreaming about doing it for ever 
so long. It would n(5t be a bad notion to make myself 
a cup of tea, and I may as well get out of this skirt.” 

She shpped from it as she spoke. Then she stood and 
gazed on her mushrooms proudly for a moment, and 
then she put the kettle on the oil-stove, and after this 
was done she sat down in the kitchen armchair, and 
sighed luxuriously. 

It may be that her eyes closed for a few moments. It 
was certainly drowsy in that wide, sunlit kitchen. 

Everything induced to slumber; even the sound of 
the men’s voices in the yard beyond had something 
soothing in it, and the buzz of an important honey bee 
that hovered about the rose bushes outside the kitchen 
window made the air drowsy. 

All at once, however, Susannah started and sat for- 
ward. 

The kettle was hissing noisily, and giving little angry 
puffs that threatened to shoot off its lid ; but it was not 


8 SUSANNAH 

the kettle that roused Susannah; some one was calling 
her name. 

“ Auntie Sue, Auntie Sue ! ” said a small voice. 

A child was standing in the doorway, an exceedingly 
pretty child, straight as a wand, in its little white night- 
dress. Susannah rubbed her eyes, looked amazement, 
and then pretended to frown. 

“ Tora ! ” she exclaimed. “ Why, darling, what are 
you doin^ there.? Why aren’t you in bed and asleep.? ” 

“ Why aren’t you .? ” replied the little person in the 
white nightgown. Gathering courage, the child stepped 
forward, pattering with little bare feet across the red- 
tiled floor of the kitchen. 

Susannah sprang up and caught the small figure in 
her arms. 

“ Now, duck bird,” she said, “ what am I going to 
do with you.? ” 

“ Give me some tea,” said Tora promptly, who, 
though poetically lovely to look at, was essentially 
practical. 

Susannah put the child on the kitchen table, and sat 
and caressed the little white feet. 

“ But, darling,” sh^ said, “ you know it is ever so 
early, and Nannie will scold like anything, and you may 
catch cold.” 

‘‘ Oh, Auntie Sue, it is so hot ! I couldn’t sleep, and 
Nannie is fast asleep, and she never heard me when I 
(Called, and I creeped out of bed, and I seen you coming 
through the paddock with Jack, and I do think you 
might have tooked me with you to pick all those mush- 


CHAPTER ONE 9 

rooms. But, Auntie Sue ” — in a cautious whisper — 
“ did you steal them? Don’t they all belong to Mr. 
Calvert? ” 

“ Now, here is your tea,” said Susannah hastily. 

It is real tea, Tora, with a large piece of sugar in 
it ; and would you like a piece of bread and butter? ” 

“ I’d rather have a biscuit and some chocolate,” 
added Tora, grasping the possibilities of the situation 
shrewdly. “ If you don’t know where to find any I can 
tell you,” she said, nodding her head — “ in that there 
cupboard there’s ever such a big packet. I know . . . 
cos cook give . . . gave me some yesterday.” 

“ Oh, Tora,” said Susannah, “ what would Nannie 
say? ” 

Tora looked towards the door and dropped her 
voice. 

“ Nannie’s very cross; she hates being here. I heard 
her say so to old cook last night ; they was sewing, and 
they thought I was asleep, but I heard it all. ... A 
farm’s a dead and somefink place, that’s what Nannie 
said, and the old woman’s as mad as a hatter. Who is 
the old woman. Auntie Sue? And you ...” But 
here Tora stopped short. “ Nannie’s always cross 
about somefink,” she said then, wistfully. “ You should 
hear her sometimes at home. Auntie Sue ; she goes on 
dreafful — oh, but dreafful really.” 

“ I am glad I don’t,” said Susannah grimly. 

She was feeding the little mouth with bits of bread 
and chocolate alternately, and kept the two pretty little 
feet in her lap. 


10 SUSANNAH 

“Never mind what Nannie says; you are always 
happy here, my pet, and that is the one great thing,” 
she said tenderly. 

The child bent forward and kissed her. 

“ I do ’dore you, my old lovey-dovey,” she said coo- 
ingly. “ You don’t mind how I scrunch you. I could 
cuggle you all to little pieces. Auntie Sue ! ” 

When Tora released her willing victim, Susannah’s 
hair had fallen in a heap on her shoulders. It made the 
child laugh heartily to see the way she shook it over 
her head, and then twisted it up in an early Victorian 
knob, and stuck it securely through with one big pin. 

“ You do look a queer thing,” said Tora, “ just like 
that picture in father’s room — that stiff old lady with 
a bonnet and long veil, and no dress over her chest. 
Auntie Sue,” said the child restlessly, “ didn’t you tell 
me that mummy had gone to sea in a pretty boat, where 
she’d be able to rest and come back with burnt cheeks? 
Well, what does gannavatin’ mean? Is it something 
that goes with a boat? Will she bring it home? I 
heard Nannie say to cook last night somefink about 
mummy putting dust in his eyes, for all he’s that 
sharp. ... I donH know what she meant, do you ? 
And then she said that about gannavatin’, and I do 
fink ” — the little brows were fretted with a frown — 
“ she said somefink about being hard for a respecti- 
ful working woman to put up with such ways. Oh, they 
did talk a lot ! ... I went asleep at last, and they was 
still talking.” 

Susannah drew the small creature into her arms ; her 


CHAPTER ONE 11 

brows were caught into a faint frown. She changed 
the conversation. 

“Aren’t you going to make my front hair curl.?” 
she said with affected gaiety. 

Tora set to work immediately. 

She carefully smoothed out a piece of crinkly paper 
(from which chocolate-dust trickled down Susannah’s 
pretty short nose), and she had just succeeded in screw- 
ing up one big curl when the sound of footsteps 
made her desist, and sent a tremble through her little 
frame. 

Susannah’s arms closed more securely about her as a 
second figure made its appearance in the doorway; 
this was a woman very red in the face and cross in 
temper, wearing a print dressing-gown, and her hair in 
crimpers. 

“ I might have known it ! ” she exclaimed. “ For the 
Lord’s sake, just look at her! Drinking tea and eatin’ 
sweets, and all at this onearthly hour, when she’d ought 
to be asleep in her bed. You’d might have known bet- 
ter, I do think. Miss Richland ! A fine time I’d have of 
it if my lady was to know. This is how it is Miss Tora’s 
always catchin’ cold. . . .” 

Tora interposed in a shrill voice. 

‘‘ Why, there isn’t any cold anywhere, you silly old 
Nannie; it’s all frizzly hot, and Auntie Sue isn’t going 
to be scolded. I gotted out of bed all alone, and it was 
my own idea ’tirely to go downstairs; and, Nannie, you 
know it’s all made-up nonsense about mummy getting 
cross, cos you know quite well that mummy never cares 


12 SUSANNAH 

what I do. Auntie Sue, you’ll carry me up the stairs, 

won’t you ? ” — this in a pathetically eager whisper. 

“ The child has done no harm,” said Susannah 
haughtily. “ It is a shame to box the little creature up 
on such a lovely morning.” 

“ I think I’m the best judge of what’s good for my 
young lady,” said the nurse pertly. 

The procession up the stairs was a silent and a de- 
pressed one. At the door of the nursery Susannah put 
Tora down. 

She felt so hot and angry that wisdom prompted her 
to cross no swords with this woman who was in her 
sister’s employ, but as she closed the nursery door and 
went along the passage to her own room there was a 
lump in her throat. 

There always was a lump in her throat when Tora 
puckered up her lips and drooped her small head. 

It hurt her, definitely hurt her, to go away and leave 
that little white-robed figure condemned to go back to 
bed, and lie still in a darkened room for another hour 
or so, when every fibre in the child’s being clamoured to 
be out in the sunshine and the glorious morning air. 

“ This is what Sophie would call making an idiot of 
myself, I suppose,” said the girl a little restlessly. 

She sat down on the window-seat and sighed. 

Sometimes I almost wish that Emma would not send 
the child to us. If I am not to love her, I would rather 
never see her. Poor little sweetheart ! ” 

Susannah leaned her head against the oaken -shutter. 
She felt so tired now. The delight that had radiated 


CHAPTER ONE 13 

her being out alone with the dawn in the orchard, that 
pure joie de vivre, was gone. 

From her seat in the window she commanded a view 
of the paddock. 

The cows were going back to graze, and across the 
green space, a line of dazzling white, went a family of 
geese in solemn procession to the small pond for their 
morning bath. There was nothing Susannah loved 
more than to upset this prim white-plumaged family, 
to ruffle the goslings out of their precise ways, and make 
the gander hiss out at her with open beak and elongated 
neck. But she saw them pass now out of sight without 
even the ghost of a smile on her lips. 

The soft impress of Tora’s little body lingered in her 
touch, the loving arms seemed to cling about her neck, 
but the power of stirring her heart, of waking her to 
happiness, that the child’s love usually carried, failed 
now. 

She had drifted back to the familiar atmosphere of 
her everyday life. It was such a dull, depressing, 
enervating atmosphere, and withal it was charged with 
the suggestion of storm, not of a magnificent electric 
outburst, but of a storm that murmured, and paused, 
and murmured again, and made the sky so gloomy 
at times that it took the grip out of most good 
things. 

“ If . . said Susannah to herself, but then she 
stopped abruptly; she knew the futility of pursuing 
a phantom possibility, and to end the matter she got up 
resolutely, and began to dress for the day. And a 


14 SUSANNAH 

plunge into the bath that was waiting certainly did her 
good. 

When she left her room in her neat blouse and skirt, 
with her dark-brown hair still twisted on the top of her 
head, she looked bright and pretty ; indeed, she laughed 
softly to herself as the thought of her ill-gotten gains 
came back to her mind, and she remembered how she 
might perhaps tempt her mother to eat a better break- 
fast than usual. 

“ A good thing they are not eggs,” she said to her- 
self. “ He can’t count the mushrooms, though I dare 
say he would like to try.” 

The house was open when she went downstairs this 
time, and what air there was was invited to enter freely. 
The old postman was coming across the fields, trudging 
along at a good pace, with a stout stick to help him, 
and his brown canvas bag slung from his neck in 
front. 

Susannah went out into the porch to wait for him, 
and took the letters. There were several letters and 
newspapers for her mother, and one letter for her- 
self. 

“ From Edmund,” she said, and her face shadowed. 
She tore it open a little nervously. It was addressed 
from a big house in Scotland, and was brief enough. 

“ Dear Sue ” (it ran), 

“ Please tell nurse to pack Tora’s things, and take 
the child up to town on Thursday to meet me on my 
return. I hope Tora has not been a bother, and that 


CHAPTER ONE 15 

your mother is fairly well. We have had good sport on 
the whole, but the birds are very wild. 

“ Yours, 

“ Edmund Corneston.” 

Susannah folded the letter with a chill feeling press- 
ing upon her. 

Her brother-in-law’s letters were never effusive, but 
this one seemed curter and colder than usual, and the 
order for the child to go from her so soon signified a 
very definite sorrow to the girl. 

As she stood twisting the letter in her hand she heard 
her mother’s door open and close, and the next moment 
a short, sharp-faced woman came down the stairs. 

“ Mrs. Richland is asking for her letters. Miss Su- 
sannah. She heard the postman’s voice.” 

The speaker had something metallic in her look and 
manner, and her eyes seemed trained to suspicion. 

“ I am just going tip to her, and I will take the 
letters,” said Susannah. 

Sophie Benson pursed in her lips for a moment, and 
then turned on her heel. 

“ Mrs. Richland has had a bad night,” she observed 
a little tartly as she went. 

Her manner said as plainly as words could that she 
did not approve of Susannah going to her mother’s 
room; but Susannah had a will of her own, a fact which 
by this time Mrs. Richland’s companion-maid and con- 
fidential factotum knew thoroughly well, and resented 
equally well. 


16 SUSANNAH 

“ I shall have to invent something,” said Susannah 
to herself as she went slowly up the stairs. “ If mother 
were to read Edmund’s letter she would jump immedi- 
ately at the idea that he had some mysterious reason for 
requiring Tora to go to town just now, whereas of 
course he merely wants to see the child, and is probably 
going to take her to meet Emma.” Then Susannah 
sighed. “ I do wish Emma would write ! . . . She could 
surely find time to scribble a word now and then. I am 
quite sure the yacht must be in harbour all the time. 
Emma’s love of the sea was always tempered with 
discretion.” 

She paused to listen a moment. Sounds were coming 
from the nursery; the child was chattering gaily; evi- 
dently her tears were forgotten, and she had made her 
peace with Nannie. 

“ Dear little soul ! ” said Susannah with a smile and 
a sigh. “ Only three more days, and then . . . Oh, it 
will be desolate here without her ! ” 

She turned the handle of the door by which she stood, 
and entered her mother’s room. 

Mrs. Richland was sitting up in bed with the pillows 
piled at her back and a writing-pad on her knees; a 
few letters she had written were flung here and there 
over the coverlet. 

The windows were set widely open, and the strong 
light poured in a little mercilessly. It seemed to 
Susannah as if her mother had grown thinner and 
more sallow since the day before; as if the restless, 
worried look, the sort of relentless eagerness which 


CHAPTER ONE 17 

she knew so well, had increased in these few hours of 
separation. 

As she approached the bed, Mrs. Richland stretched 
her hand out eagerly for her letters. She wore some 
fleecy wrap about her shoulders ; in the hottest weather 
she was barely warm. 

Susannah sat down on the edge of the bed, and 
watched her as she tore open her letters in a feverish 
sort of way. 

The girl could remember her mother’s beauty so 
clearly, and even now there was more than a trace of it ; 
age, illness, and endless mental fretting could not 
change the well-cut features, or take nobility from the 
low, broad brow, from which the hair, once dark and 
luxurious, now spare and grey, rolled back in natural 
waves ; the teeth were white and even. When her mother 
smiled the effect was fascinating; but smiles were rare 
gifts, and there was something infinitely pathetic to 
Susannah in the tired blue eyes with their ever-constant 
dark shadows. 

“ Writing so soon, darling? ” said the girl with 
tender reproach. “ And Sophie tells me you slept so 
badly.” 

Mrs. Richland did not heed the words; she was ab- 
sorbed in one of her letters. Suddenly she crushed it 
in her hand almost fiercely. 

“ It is simply absurd and abominable ! ” she said in a 
hot, strained tone. “ Would you believe it. Sue, in face 
of all I have told him, Mr. Burke declares I have 
no case against that scoundrel Whitfield, that he 


18 SUSANNAH 

cannot possibly advise me to take the matter into 
court ! ” 

Susannah knit her brows. 

“ It is hal'd, darling,” she said, and she sat down on 
the edge of the bed. She tried to make her voice as 
sympathetic as possible. “ But Mr. Burke is always 
cautious, and, you see, a lawsuit costs so much.” Su- 
sannah said this hurriedly, as though a little afraid of 
making a statement the truth of which she knew by 
such bitter experience. 

“ An old stick-in-the-mud ! He drives me mad ! ” 
said Mrs. Richland excitedly. “ I always did detest 
him ! If I had had another sort of man to look 
after my affairs when your father died I should have 
been in a very different position now. No case!” she 
repeated irritably. “ Why, Whitfield is an out-and- 
out fraud! . . . Didn’t you see that account in the 
paper yesterday about a man who advertised tips in 
just the same way as he did.?^ Well, some woman 
brought that man to book for getting money under 
false pretences ! So why shouldn’t I do the same thing 
with Whitfield? ” 

Susannah fingered the fringe on the silken coverlet 
of the bed nervously. Her brow was contracted; her 
lips moved once, as though it cost her a great effort not 
to speak, yet her words when they came were trite 
enough. 

“ I suppose Mr. Burke thinks it would be a waste of 
money. Try not to worry about it, darling,” she said. 

Mrs. Richland laughed a little shortly. 


19 


CHAPTER ONE 

“ That is so like you, Sue ! When one might reason- 
ably expect a little sympathy, you offer a platitude. 
You and old Burke go well together.” 

She had been opening her other letters as she spoke, 
and all at once her face changed swiftly, the anger and 
fretfulness disappeared; a little colour stole for an in- 
stant into the sallow white of her cheeks. 

She read and re-read the letter she had in her hand ; 
then hurriedly picking up a newspaper, she scanned a 
certain page eagerly ; then she reverted to the subject of 
Mr. Burke again, but a good deal of the animus seemed 
to have gone from her voice. 

“ Another time,” she said, “ I shan’t consult him at 
all; I shall go straight ahead without him. Just be- 
cause your f ather made him trustee to our miserable bit 
of money, he thinks he has the right to order and dic- 
tate. Sue,” she said suddenly, “ I want you to let me 
have your cheque for twenty-five pounds. ... I will 
give you mine in exchange, and you can hold it over till 
my next remittance comes.” 

Susannah coloured, and hesitated. 

“ Do you want it at once? ” she asked. 

Mrs. Richland nodded her head. 

“ Yes, now,” she answered. “ Why? You don’t ob- 
ject, I suppose? ” 

Susannah got up. 

“ I don’t believe I have so much in the bank, mother,” 
she said. 

“Not got five and twenty pounds in the bank?” 
Mrs. Richland’s tone was openly amazed and doubtful. 


W SUSANNAH 

“ My dear Sue, what do you do with your money? You 
spend nothing on your clothes. ... You are horribly, 
almost indecently shabby, and with three hundred a year 
all to yourself you might afford to do so many things 
that other people cannot hope to do ! ” 

Susannah walked to the window. 

“ The money does go,” she said lightly, “ and yet 
one does so Httle. I thought it would last twice as long 
in the country, but . . She broke off with a little 
sigh. 

Mrs. Richland had been pondering, and broke in 
here. 

“ Well, I tell you what you might do anyhow. Draw 
the cheque, and then write to your bank, and ask them 
to see it through ; they are sure to let you overdraw, as 
your income is paid direct to your account. Of course,” 
she added fretfully, “ it is a miserable business having 
to borrow what really ought to have been mine, but 
that is an old story; and,” she added, the bright look 
coming back to her face, “ it is really most important 
that I should have this money at once. Look 
here . . .” She pushed the letter across the bed, and 
then took it back again. “ No ! . . . you never under- 
stand these things, and it is waste of time trying to ex- 
plain them; but I will tell you this much. Sue, if you 
can let me have twenty-five pounds now, I shall certainly 
double it by this time next week. The thing is sure, ab- 
solutely sure ! ” 

Susannah stifled a sigh between her teeth. 

It seemed to her that she had heard that wonderful 


CHAPTER ONE 21 

story ever since she could remember. If all the “ sure 
things ” that had been angled for her had only come to 
hook, the field in front of the house would hardly have 
been large enough to hold them ! 

But though wisdom, and something harder than wis- 
dom, the need of clinging to what she had, to keep the 
house going in absolute necessities, clamoured to be 
heard, Susannah could never steel her heart against 
that glimmer of youth and light in her mother’s eyes, 
could never bring herself to deny that mother the means 
of tasting hope, and, in a sense, happiness for a brief 
spell. 

“ I think I can manage it, and I will run now and 
get the cheque, darling,” she said. 

She went swiftly back to her own room. In the 
drawer where she kept her few private papers she turned 
over a letter from her mother’s trustee and her own, 
that same Mr. Burke who was such an old “ stick-in-the- 
mud.” A few words in the old-fashioned writing caught 
Susannah’s eyes. 

“ I do beg of you . . 

But she resolutely pushed this letter out of sight, 
and, taking up pen and ink, drew the cheque required, 
and having relocked the drawer she hurried back to her 
mother’s room. 

She had just slipped the narrow pink paper into Mrs. 
Richland’s hand when Sophie pushed open the door and 
entered, bearing a breakfast-tray in her hands. 

Susannah looked at it eagerly. 

“ There are some mushrooms,” she said. “ I picked 


22 SUSANNAH 

them myself this morning. I thought mother would 
enjoy a few grilled.” 

Sophie Benson put the tray on the bed. 

“ Mushrooms ! ” she said with a sniff. “ Do you 
want to poison Mrs. Richland.? The very worst thing 
she could eat! . . . And if you’ll let me advise you, 
Miss Sue, you’ll not go picking Mr. Calvert’s mush- 
rooms again ; he’d be rightly angered if he knew. His 
orders were strict that no one should touch them but 
Spens.” 

“ How ridiculous you are, Benson 1 ” said Susannah 
in her coldest way. “ Mushrooms are no one’s property, 
and Mr. Calvert’s anger is a matter of indifference to 
me. Sometimes,” added the girl a little hotly, “ you 
permit yourself too much freedom in speaking to me 1 ” 

Mrs. Richland, who had been scribbling again, looked 
up from one to the other fretfully. 

“What is the matter.? Mushrooms! Oh, of course, 
I cannot eat them ! . . . And, Sue, I do beg of you not 
to annoy Richard Calvert.” 

She let her attendant carry away her writing-pad, 
and replace it with the breakf ast-tray , but not very 
willingly. 

“ Don’t forget,” she said, “ that Calvert is our land- 
lord, and can be agreeable or very disagreeable, just as 
we treat him ; and as for a time I suppose we shall have 
to stay here, it is decidedly to our interests to make our- 
selves amiable. Sophie, what do you think old Burke 
writes .? ” 

Susannah had reseated herself on the bed, and she 


CHAPTER ONE 23 

listened now with a kind of pain, and a very definite sen- 
sation of annoyance, whilst her mother poured out her 
grievances to the woman who was waiting on her. 

It was an old, old story, this sharp regret, this an- 
noyance, that another person should be the recipient of 
her mother’s intimate thoughts. Not that she was 
exactly jealous of Sophie Benson; but as she had 
grown out of childhood Susannah had gradually re- 
sented the existence of an influence so intrusive, so 
powerful, so injudicious, and so antagonistic to herself 
in her mother’s life. Susannah was no saint in temper, 
and she had wasted much hot indignation over the man- 
ner in which she was resolutely shut away from all 
chance of making herself necessary to her mother, or of 
drawing a little closer to her. She did not deceive her- 
self ; she knew that she could never have filled Sophie 
Benson’s place. There was too much of her father in 
the girl to let her play the hypocrite easily, whereas 
from Sophie* Benson (once her children’s nursery gov- 
erness, and little by little translated into her constant 
companion) Mrs. Richland obtained just that encour- 
agement she needed for the development of certain 
follies which had been the ruin of her life. From the 
moment of her father’s death, when the truth of many 
things had come to Susannah, it had been a silent and 
a steady battle between this woman, Sophie Benson, and 
herself. 

The girl’s straightforward nature was such that, had 
the matter rested entirely on moral reasons, she would 
have put forward the whole force of her will, and have 


24 SUSANNAH 

got Benson out of her mother’s life altogether by some 
means or other; but there was more to be considered 
than practical common sense. There was the fact that 
Mrs. Richland was a suffering woman — a woman built 
up of nerves, with a constitution of paper; and, evil as 
her influence was in a moral sense, Sophie was invaluable 
when the hours of illness came. Therefore, for this 
reason alone, knowing as she did sadly enough that her 
mother absolutely relied on this little hard-visaged 
woman, that Sophie was half her existence, Susannah 
felt that there would be something definitely cruel in 
working to bring about a separation. 

Moreover, even if Sophie Benson were to go, it was 
too late now to hope for anything different. 

Susannah had dreamed her dreams, and had seen them 
melt into the air long ago. She always smiled when 
Mr. Burke argued, and counselled, and endeavoured to 
set things right in her mother’s life. In the beginning 
it had seemed to her such an easy thing to surround 
Celia Richland with softer and more peaceful elements, 
to engender a calmer atmosphere, to draw her away 
from the turmoil, the sordid, feverish, unwholesome 
struggle to cheat chance and make money, not for any 
useful or beneficent purpose, but only that the game 
might be played on with bigger stakes than before. 
But it had not taken Susannah very long to realize that 
no power of hers would ever help to stem such a tor- 
rent ; and when she had got as far as that she was able 
to accept the situation with a certain amount of phi- 
losophy. 


CHAPTER ONE 25 

So now, after she had sat listening a little while, she 
got up fully aware that her mother was eagerly anx- 
ious to be alone with Benson to discuss the important 
matters of the moment. 

“ I must go and give Tora her breakfast,” she said. 

Oh, by the way, mother, I forgot to tell you that I 
have heard from Edmund. He will be in town on 
Thursday, and he wants Tora to j oin him there. I hope 
he is going to take the child to the sea. After the 
country, and especially now that it is so hot, the sea 
would do her good.” 

Mrs. Richland sipped her tea. 

‘‘ Victoria seems to me to be in perfect health,” she 
said languidly — the subject did not interest her; “ and 
I thought she was going to stay here till Emma sent 
for her. It is so like Edmund to upset Emma’s plans. 
I should certainly not let the child go till you have 
heard from Emma.” 

‘‘ Oh, I should never dare to defy Edmund,” Susan- 
nah said with a little laugh. 

“ And you will be far better with the child away, 
Mrs. Richland,” said Benson in her primmest way. 
“ She’s so noisy, and gets . . .” 

Susannah passed out hurriedly, and shut the door 
behind her : this left her without the end of the sentence, 
but she knew so well how Benson’s sentences ended, par- 
ticularly one of this kind. 

Tora was waiting for her on the stairs in a very much 
starched frock, and a blue ribbon in her carefully ar- 
ranged curls. 


26 SUSANNAH 

“ I shan’t tell her yet,” said Susannah to herself ; 
“ to-morrow or Wednesday will be soon enough. She 
would fret all day if she were to know that she was 
going away so soon.” 

Seated alone in the quaint, low-roofed dining-room, 
the girl and the child were absolutely happy. 

Tora was allowed to help the ham and eggs, and to 
pour out the coffee. 

When she made a spot on the table-cloth Auntie Sue 
kissed her; such a welcome change to the rules of the 
nursery ! 

Some of the mushrooms duly made their appearance, 
and Tora looked at them with eager eyes; then all at 
once she glanced through the open window, and then 
she crouched under the table. 

“ Oh, there is Mr. Calvert ! ” she whispered breath- 
lessly. “ Auntie Sue, has he come to take you to 
prison ? ” 

Susannah laughed. 

With the little figure clinging about her protect- 
ingly, she advanced to the window. 

“Good-morning!” she called aloud. “Isn’t it hot? 
Won’t you come in and have some breakfast? There 
are some delicious mushrooms ; do come and eat 
them.” 

Richard Calvert took off his hat, and turned away 
from an evidently important discussion with his bailiff. 

He was tall and thin, and his face was baked red- 
brown from constant exposure to the sun, and the 
wind, and all the elements of Nature. 


CHAPTER ONE 27 

When he took off his hat he looked as if he wore a 
mask, for the brows were so white, such a contrast 
to his face ; his hair was white, too, at the sides. Little 
Victoria Comeston regarded him with awe ; she thought 
him very fierce and grim; to her ears his voice was al- 
ways angry. 

‘‘ Can’t come in. Miss Richland,” he said. “ I have 
only looked in for a moment to know if Spens has heard 
anything about two bullocks that ran away on Satur- 
day. Can’t find a trace of them anywhere.” 

“ Two bullocks, and loose! ” said Susannah, turning 
pale. “ Oh, I do hope they won’t come here.” 

Mr. Calvert laughed. 

And I hope they will. . . . But don’t be afraid, 
they will do you no harm. I expect they will be pretty 
well exhausted by now. They were some of a lot I 
bought on Saturday at Binstead market. Coming 
along the highroad the gad-fly attacked those two poor 
brutes, and up went their tails, and away they went to- 
wards the woods, so the drover thinks ; but I was out all 
yesterday scouring the place, and I could see no sign 
of them, so I have told Spens to keep his eyes open, as 
they may find their way here.” 

“ And we shall be very careful where we go to-day, 
shan’t we, Tora.? ” said Susannah decidedly. 

Calvert pulled on his big, rough riding-glove. 

‘‘ I must be off,” he said briskly. 

Apparently he was quite indifferent to the heat that 
was already almost oppressive. 

He wore a sun-baked straw hat, a white linen coat. 


28 SUSANNAH 

and a pair of well-worn corduroy breeches, and some 
leggings that had certainly seen hard service. 

Rough as his clothes were, they fitted him, and he had 
the unmistakable air of a gentleman. 

He patted Tora’s curls. 

‘‘ Grows, doesn’t she.? Country life suits her,” he 
said ; then he paused, and, searching in an inner pocket, 
he produced a letter. 

“ Will you give this to Mrs. Richland ? ” he said. “ I 
hope the heat of these last few days has not tried 
her very much. Well, good-bye, little golden locks, and 
good-day to you. Miss Richland. Thank-ye, I break- 
fasted long ago.” His eyes twinkled for a moment. 
“ I was over here about four this morning, riding across 
the marshes below the apple orchard to look for the 
bullocks. The world is fair enough when the sun begins 
to rise, isn’t it .? ” 

Susannah blushed hotly. 

“ I didn’t see you,” she said. 

“ Didn’t you ? ” said Richard Calvert a trifle grimly. 
“ Well, I saw you.” 

He touched his hat, and walked away to continue his 
chat with his bailiff, and mount the very serviceable 
hack he was riding. 

“ He didn’t really scold, did he? ” said Tora; and she 
gave a big sigh of relief. “ Nannie said she didn’t 
know what he wouldn’t do to you. Auntie Sue — some- 
fink very discomfortable.” 

“ Well,” said Susannah, as she sat down and pushed 
the mushrooms to the farthest corner of the table, “ for 


CHAPTER ONE 29 

once in a way your Nannie happens to be right, little 
Tora.” 

“Not really!” Tora was quite interested and ex- 
cited. “ But he didn’t do nothing, Auntie Sue, not even 
try to slap you.” 

Susannah laughed, but not very merrily. She was 
looking at the letter Richard Calvert had given her 
for her mother, wondering uneasily what its contents 
could be ; wondering, with a hot pang, if by any chance 
this letter could be an answer to one f rom her mother. 

“ I am not sure, Tora,” she said with a sigh, after 
a while, “ that I would mind being slapped so very 
much.” 

“ Ah 1 ” said Tora, smearing her bread and butter 
thickly with honey, and speaking as one with authority, 
“ that’s all on who does the slap. Auntie Sue I ” 


II 


“While his horse is at full gallop the child-angel picks up on 
the road an insignificant little ball, and in sport is about to fling 
it over millions of infinites; but the wise Metator arrests his arm. 
“‘Drop it,’ he says. 

“‘Ah,* says Uriel, ‘is it of any use, this little ball?’ 

“ ‘ No,’ answers the messenger, ‘ it is not of much use, but drop 
it nevertheless; it is the earth.’” — Theodore de Danville. 

I T was the first time that Hemstone Farmhouse had 
been occupied by strangers. The old folk, from 
whom Richard Calvert had inherited this prop- 
erty, had lived out their life in the quaint low-roofed 
building, with its stone passages, and oaken doors, and 
wonderful kitchens, and a circular staircase full of 
queer comers and secret cupboards. 

It happened that the firm of solicitors in which 
William Burke was a partner had the handling of the 
legal work in connection with this portion of Richard 
Calvert’s property ; and when he chanced to mention, in 
conversation with Mr. Burke, that he thought he would 
try and let the house for a nominal rent, it had occurred 
to Mrs. Richland’s trustee that here would be an ex- 
cellent opportunity for that retrenchment which he had 
preached despairingly enough these past five years, and 
for that quiet life which Mrs. Richland’s doctors had 
insisted upon for so long. 


30 


CHAPTER TWO 31 

So, when he had thought the plan over from every 
point of view, Mr. Burke carried the matter to Susan- 
nah. 

“ The rent is practically nothing ; there are no taxes. 
With merely ordinary care you ought to be able to live 
there in real comfort on your joint incomes,” he said. 

The girl’s eyes had danced at the mere suggestion. 

“ A farm ... a real farm ! It would be too 
delicious ! ” she had declared. 

The thought of establishing a home appealed irre- 
sistibly to Susannah. They had moved so often since 
her father’s death, when their house in Kensington had 
been sold. They had tried so many different things — 
furnished apartments, boarding-houses, cheap and nasty 
hotels; and when Mr. Burke brought this proposition 
of migrating to the country, they were living in a tiny 
furnished flat off the Edgware Road, with scarcely 
enough room for Mrs. Richland’s numerous boxes, or 
Sophie Benson’s one pet, a vicious, fat, and very ugly 
spaniel. 

Mrs. Richland had had a very bad attack of illness 
in this small flat, and had conceived an intense dislike 
to it. So, though she jibbed a little at first at the idea 
of burying herself in the country, especially with winter 
ahead of them, she gradually let Mr. Burke talk her 
into the scheme; and her furniture was unearthed from 
a warehouse, and Susannah was despatched to make all 
smooth and comfortable before her mother arrived. 

To the girl it was like the beginning of a new life 
to find herself in the heart of the country ; to be able 


S2 SUSANNAH 

to walk from the house freely, and fear no observation; 
to feel that the nearest house was a couple of miles 
away, and that the delicious air, chill though it was 
in the grey autumn days, was all her own, not to be 
divided between several millions. 

When she had been a little child she had gone once 
or twice with her father to a rough kind of shooting- 
box that he had taken in the north, and those jaunts 
had constituted the big gleams of joy in an otherwise 
sombre childhood. And the day she had arrived at 
the small wayside station, and had been driven in a 
nondescript kind of conveyance to Hemstone Farm- 
house, Susannah had felt as if the years had been put 
back and those old enchanting days had dawned once 
again. Everything seemed easy, and pleasant, and 
possible in the solitude and the space of the country. 

She drifted very far away in that moment from the 
endless petty yet very definite trials that constituted 
her daily life. 

And in the days that followed, the charm of the new 
surroundings deepened, and the delight of working to 
make a pretty home for her mother brought a rush of 
feelings that gave life a value it had never had before. 

Then Mrs. Richland had arrived, and the delight, 
and the peace, and even the hope, had been scattered 
to the winds. 

For four or five days Sophie Benson was occupied 
in undoing all the work Susannah had done, and which 
had been such a labour of love to the girl. She changed 
all the furniture; she took down all the curtains, and 


CHAPTER TWO 33 

substituted new ones (sent by telegraphic order from 
an expensive house in town) ; she objected to the room 
allotted to Mrs. Richland; she found draughts where 
there were no draughts; she said the smell from the 
farmyard was unwholesome, that the eggs tasted too 
strong, the milk was watered, that it was not possible 
to get butter fit to eat ; and she took an infinite amount 
of trouble to work out on paper the fact that the gar- 
den would cost eventually three times what their yearly 
expenditure had been for fruit and vegetables and 
flowers in London. Susannah felt quite sure that 
Sophie’s neat little array of figures told the truth; 
but there was the illusion of the garden, that was more 
to her than facts — the joy of picking a flower when 
the time of the flowers came again, of scouring the 
gooseberry bushes in the spring, and cutting the 
asparagus herself. These happy little things were 
hidden to Sophie’s practical eye. Moreover, as she had 
objected to the move in the beginning, it was natural 
she would continue to object to the end. 

With all this fault-finding Mrs. Richland heartily 
agreed, but she had other grievances. Scarcely had 
she been settled in before she began agitating to have 
the telegraph office brought, as it were, to her door. 
The old lady who kept the nearest office in a village 
three miles away was driven almost frantic with her. 
correspondence by wire and express post. Then she 
wrote to the vicar, complaining of the church bells, 
which could only be heard at Hernstone when the wind 
was in a certain quarter; and she quarrelled violently 


34 SUSANNAH 

with the farm bailiff because the sheep bleated in the 
night. 

Her numerous requirements made life even more ex- 
pensive than it had been in town. 

She kept a youth to go errands, and bought a bicycle 
for the youth to ride ; she also bought a pony and trap, 
and by degrees she began to think that if the Post- 
master-General could not be brought to see the impera- 
tive necessity of establishing a telegraph-office nearer 
the farm they would have to get a motor-car. 

About the post-office she bombarded Sir Edmund 
Corneston with letters, and was very sarcastic and 
angry when her son-in-law professed curtly that he had 
no power to help her. 

Finally she obtained what she wanted, and the tele- 
graph wire being brought to the village five minutes 
away, she then discussed with Benson the possibility of 
having a telephone. 

Susannah always trembled when she heg,rd her mother 
discuss a possibility. Even the most unheard-of things 
seemed so natural when Celia Richland took them in 
hand to turn them to her own use. 

She was the most helpless, helpful person that could 
exist. Her extreme physical delicacy covered a will 
that was relentless, cruel, and strong as iron. It was 
a will that had slowly driven her husband into his grave 
many years before his time. 

Perhaps the one, the real, reason why Susannah 
would always remain outside her mother’s heart lay in 
the fact that Ralph Richland had adored his youngest 


CHAPTER TWO 35 

child, and in dying had given the best possible proof 
of this love ; for his will left Susannah absolutely inde- 
pendent of her mother. This was something Celia 
Richland had never been able to forget or forgive. She 
regarded it as a definite theft from herself. Scarcely 
a day passed without some allusion to this matter, 
either a bitter one or a pathetic one, or a declaration 
of pretended resignation ; and her openly expressed dis- 
like to William Burke rose entirely from her belief that 
he had counselled this arrangement, and rejoiced at it. 
Assuredly the lawyer never lost an opportunity of 
preaching prudence to Susannah; of entreating her 
not to let her mother squander her small income as she 
squandered her own; of urging upon her the wisdom 
of tempering her generous affection with caution. 

The remembrance of Mr. Burke haunted Susannah 
a good deal this morning. She knew she had said fare- 
well to another twenty-five pounds, that the money 
would be simply thrown away. And there were so 
many, many things to pay. Debts seemed to accumu- 
late like magic, and Mrs. Richland’s quarterly allow- 
ance was always booked months in advance. 

Susannah sighed very often. 

‘‘ Don’t brow like that. Auntie Sue,” said Tora 
reprovingly. “ You was just in the middle of that 
lov-ally story, and you stopped and looked so cross, and 
then you said some words to yourself ; and you shouldn’t 
mutter to yourself, you know, or Luficer will hear you.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Susannah meekly. And 
she woke up out of her calculations. 


36 SUSANNAH 

They had not gone very far from the house. It was 
much too hot, and, despite Mr. Calvert’s assurance that 
there was no danger, Susannah had not the smallest 
desire to meet two stray bullocks wandering on road 
or field. 

So she and Tora had gone out to the big chestnut 
tree in the middle of the lawn, and she had put the child 
into the hammock, and had sat swinging her whilst she 
whispered the most enchanting stories about butterflies, 
and fairies, and princes, and queens. And by and by 
Tora’s eyes closed, and there was no need for more 
imagination. 

When the nurse came out to look for her little charge, 
Susannah begged that the child might be left un- 
disturbed in the hammock. 

“ If you work near her she can sleep as well here as 
in the house, and she does love the air. . . . She is 
very sleepy . . .” 

Then, with some remorse, Susannah added, “ I am 
afraid I was to blame this morning, nurse, and she 
ought to have gone back to bed, but I can never be 
hard-hearted with Tora.” 

The nurse’s face softened a little. There was some- 
thing so gracious and pretty in these words. 

After all, Miss Sue was wonderfully good at amus- 
ing the child, and she did love the small creature, that 
was very sure. 

“ Oh, that’s all right, miss,” she answered ; “ it is 
hot indoors. I’ll sit by her here. She’ll sleep, maybe, 
for a while now.” 


CHAPTER TWO 37 

Susannah went away softly. 

The sun beat down so fiercely that it required some 
strength to pass across the open space and reach the 
house. 

She put her handkerchief over her head, and fanned 
herself with a cabbage-leaf. 

Halfway across the lawn she caught sight of Jack 
the cowboy standing among the raspberry bushes, look- 
ing at her in a helpless sort of way. 

Some instinct seemed to tell Susannah he wanted her, 
so she turned and went towards him. 

“Is this hot enough for you. Jack.?” she inquired 
in her clear voice as she approached. 

The youth was very red in the face, and fumbled in 
his trouser-pockets nervously for a moment. Then he 
jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 

“ There’s a lady a-wantin’ to speak to ’ee, miss. 
She’s down yonder ... in the horse-shed by the 
brook ; said as how I was to tell ’ee quiet like when no 
one were nigh ; seems she wants you ’tickler. Miss Susan- 
nah.” 

Susannah frowned, and flung away the cabbage-leaf. 

“ A lady ... in the horse-shed ! . . . This 
sounds very mysterious. Jack.” 

“Yes, miss,” said Jack; and having delivered his 
message, he touched his cap, and trudged off to his din- 
ner. 

Holding the handkerchief with both hands to shade 
her eyes, Susannah started through the garden and the 
apple orchard to where the brook meandered. Across 


38 SUSANNAH 

the tiny bridge, and the stone yard and pool (where 
the sheep were washed), there was a big shed for the 
farm horses, that were always loosed into the fields at 
night. 

Jack’s message had evidently been inspired, for 
some one assuredly was seated in the shadiest corner of 
the shed — some one wearing the very smartest of silk 
dust-coats and motor hats ; some one who looked cross 
and hot, and as disagreeable as a very pretty woman 
can look. 

“ Emma ! ” said Susannah ; and the quick beat in 
her heart increased. 

“ What a time you have been ! ” was Lady Cornes- 
ton’s greeting, given irritably. 

“ I have only just had your message,” retorted 
Susannah with equal irritation. 

“ I told the boy quite half an hour ago.” 

“ You impressed great secrecy ... so, of course, 
some time was wasted. Why on earth have you come 
like this, Emma.'^ W^here are you staying? I thought 
you were at Trouville ! ” 

“ I am staying with Ada Harraday,” said Lady 
Corneston. “ W^'e got rather sick of the yacht, it was 
so stifling hot. ... I came over as soon as I could, 
and I thought I would have five minutes’ chat with you. 
Sue, without dear old Sophie crawling about, keeping 
her ears open, listening to all we have to say. Of 
course, I’m going in to see mother, but I want to 
arrange something with you first. . . .” 

Lady Corneston broke off. She had flung back the 


CHAPTER TWO 39 

white gauze veil, and her small oval face, with its deep 
blue eyes (doubly blue by reason of her very clear skin 
and her very dark hair), looked, as it always did in her 
sister’s eyes, fascinating beyond description. 

“ Have you heard from Edmund? ” she asked 
abruptly. 

“Yes, this morning,” said Sue; and she gave the 
contents of Sir Edmund’s letter. 

Lady Corneston drew a sharp breath. 

“ Dated Saturday,” she said, as if addressing her- 
self. “ I wonder . . .” She broke off. “ Have you 
answered? ” she asked instead. 

“No , . . there was nothing to answer.” 

“ But, of course, you have told nurse? ” 

Susannah shook her head. 

“ Not yet.” She was mystified and slightly troubled 
by her sister’s manner. It was a new experience to see 
Emma disturbed; to catch the grate of real worry in 
her pretty voice. “ No, not yet ... I did not want 
Tora to know. The child has been so happy here. I 
am afraid she will fret at leaving.” 

Lady Corneston drew another sharp breath. 

“ Have you spoken of Edmund’s letter to any one? ” 

“ I told mother he had written,” Susannah said with 
a certain amount of impatience, “ and Sophie was 
there.” 

“ Cat ! ” said Emma Corneston. “ How I hate 
her ! ” — she seemed to ponder a moment, then she said 
in the same tone — “ but, of course, mother would have 
told her, anyhow.” 


40 SUSANNAH 

“ Well, it would not matter if she did, would it? ” 
asked Susannah in her straightforward way. 

“ Oh no ... of course not ! ” 

Lady Comeston pulled down her veil, and arranged 
it becomingly. 

“ Look here. Sue, ... I will tell you what I have 
come here for now. Ada Harraday wants you to stay 
with her at the Bourne for a few days; I’m going to 
have Tora there too. I think you would enjoy it im- 
mensely. I thought I would run over this morning, 
and bring you the invitation myself. And you must 
come. Sue dear, . . . you absolutely must! Old 
Harraday sent me over in his new automobile; it is 
waiting up on the highroad. I suppose you couldn’t 
put your things together, and come back with me to 
luncheon? And Tora . . .” 

“ Tora is asleep,” said Susannah. 

All at once her pulses were thrilling wildly. These 
words, so utterly unexpected, opened up a vista of sud- 
den delight to her and swept her away from the con- 
fines of her everyday life; that life so busy, so unevent- 
ful, so very dull. 

The very suggestion of spending a few days with 
Emma was in itself a kind of forbidden bliss, and to 
stay in that beautiful old Elizabethan house, which had 
appealed to her fancy and her imagination ever since 
she first caught sight of it, on one of her long solitary 
excursions, had something in it of unreality; it was a 
kind of fairy story, something to enthrall the senses, 
but not to be believed. 


CHAPTER TWO 41 

But while she paused, bewildered and fascinated, 
Lady Corneston had gone on speaking quickly. 

“No . . . no, of course not ... it would be too 
hot for the child to go now . . . but she must be got 
ready to come with you. Sue . . . and please see that 
nurse holds her very tightly, the motor goes like the 
wind. I suppose you have some kind of an evening 
frock. Sue.? And . . . but that won’t matter,” said 
Lady Corneston restlessly, “ I have such heaps of 
things, and Melanie can rig you up in some of my 
gowns. There are only two or three women staying in 
the house, which is rather a mercy.” 

By this time Lady Corneston had risen and had 
turned in the direction of the house. She caught up 
her dainty skirts and picked her way across the little 
bridge and through the gate with its rusty hasps, and 
she talked the whole while, and Susannah followed her, 
still excited and bewildered, and letting the suggestion 
of pleasure have her in sway against herself as it 
were. 

All at once she found her voice. 

“ I should so love to go, Emma, but ... I know 
it is impossible! You see I never go away ... I 
never go anywhere.” 

“ Time you commenced,” said Lady Corneston de- 
cisively. 

She walked on over the rough meadow grass as 
quickly as she could, considering the height of her heels, 
and the daintiness of her small brown leather shoes. 

Susannah smiled. 


42 SUSANNAH 

“ You will see,” she said. “ Oh, mother won’t make 
any objection, but Sophie will.” 

“ Leave me to deal with Sophie. ... I tell you. Sue, 
you are to come. ... It is positively absurd that a 
girl of your age and your . . . looks,” the dark blue 
eyes from behind the gauze veil here scanned Susannah 
critically, and in a degree jealously, “ cannot be boxed 
up for everlasting with old people. Edmund was only 
saying so this last season when you refused to come and 
stay with us in town. Oh, dear, how stifling it is! 
. . . Thank goodness we have come to the end of that, 
and oh! . . . there is nurse. ... I may as well give 
her my orders now.” 

Susannah followed her sister through the fruit bushes 
to the lawn ; she was still under the spell of the delight 
that Emma’s suggestion had conjured into existence; 
still incredulous, hoping and fearing at the same time. 

Lady Corneston approached the corner where the 
neat, white-robed woman was sewing beside the sleeping 
child in the hammock. 

She noticed the quick look of amazement and 
suspicion that darted into the eyes of the nurse at sight 
of her, and set her teeth. 

“ Good-morning, nurse,” she said ; “ and how is Miss 
Tora.? . . .” Then she paused, and regarded the 
hammock. “ But surely,” her tone was one of extreme 
amazement and censure, “ surely you are not allowing 
the child to sleep out here? How can you be so care- 
less? You know how I have impressed upon you to be 
particular about Miss Tora’s skin, and out here she 


CHAPTER TWO 43 

may be stung . . . or . . . get sunstroke or ... or 
anything ! ” 

“ It was Miss Richland as would have it,” answered 
the nurse, quick to shield herself by accusing another. 

Lady Corneston, having taken the situation in one 
move, now improved upon it. 

“ It is your duty to look after Miss Tora,” she said 
severely. “ Miss Richland cannot be expected to know 
what is good for a child. I am very much annoyed, 
extremely annoyed.” 

Susannah had fortunately moved on; she was out of 
earshot, very nearly across the lawn. 

“ I have come over from the Bourne, where I am stay- 
ing with Mrs. Harraday,” continued Tora’s mother, 
“ to tell you that you are to bring Miss Tora there this 
afternoon. Miss Richland is coming too, and Sir 
Edmund will probably join us to-morrow. ... I hope 
you have plenty of clean frocks and things.” Lady 
Corneston bent over the small sleeping form and 
frowned sharply. 

“ She is shockingly sunburnt ! ” she said. ‘‘ Why, 
her nose is quite skinned ! ” 

‘‘ And if she comes to a place like this, what does 
your ladyship expect.?” retorted the nurse, who was 
in a very bad temper. 

She hated to be taken by surprise, and as she made 
it her business to know all that was going on, this un- 
expected appearance of her mistress rather took the 
wind out of her sails. 

A nice time I’ve had of it with Miss Richland for- 


44 SUSANNAH 

ever tearing the child about,” she said hotly. “ This 
is no place for Miss Tora, and I said it from the 
first.” 

“ You say things that you have no business to say,” 
was Lady Corneston’s correction, given languidly. 
“ Now please understand, you must have everything 
packed and ready about six this afternoon. You will 
come over in a motor, so put a veil of some sort about 
Miss Tora’s hat. Though her complexion is quite 
ruined, we may as well take care of her eyes.” 

Lady Comeston let her dainty skirts trail over the 
parched grass of the lawn. 

She felt refreshed by this little passage of arms with 
Tora’s nurse. 

‘‘ If I had not started first,” she said to herself, 
‘‘ Bury would have been bursting with curiosity ; now 
I have given her something else to think of ! ” Then 
she sighed shortly. 

“Oh, dear! ... I shall only feel safe when I have 
settled everything with Sue. I have been none too soon 
as it is . . . but I shall do it. Sue was always a 
fool about me, and now,” said Emma Corneston a little 
grimly, “ now I am going to turn her folly to good 
account.” 

She slipped her white-gloved hand affectionately 
through Susannah’s arm as she joined the girl. 

“ Dear old Sue ! . . . it ^5 nice to see you again I 
And it will be jolly, won’t it, having a few days to- 
gether? The Harradays are awfully kind; it is a 
delightful house to stay in. . . . By the way, though, 


CHAPTER TWO 45 

can you give me Edmund’s letter? You have not left 
it lying about, I hope? ” 

Susannah dived into her pocket. 

“ What a fuss you are making about Edmund’s let- 
ter,” she said a little crossly. ‘‘ Here it is, and all 
the world might read it! . . . There is absolutely 
nothing in it.” 

Lady Comeston’s small hand closed eagerly over the 
paper. She drew out the letter and scanned the date ; 
then she read the few curt words. 

“ Quite enough to damn me I ” she said to herself in 
that same grim way, “ if Bury had got hold of it.” 

Out loud she continued talking about the visit. 

“ There is going to be a small croquet party, and, 
I believe, a dance one night! It is almost too hot to 
dance; but it will be a change, anyhow, to that ever- 
lasting bridge. I am so sick of bridge. Sue ! And yet 
one must play it if one doesn’t want to be considered a 
bore. Where is mother? Downstairs? ” 

“ She seldom leaves her room now,” said Susannah. 

There was a flush not entirely bom of the heat 
painted on her cheeks; her steel-grey eyes had caught 
some of the colour of the sky. She had none of Lady 
Corneston’s claims to real beauty, but no one seeing her 
in this moment could have denied that she was most 
attractive under certain circumstances. 

The colour went, and the light faded a little from 
her eyes as they drew nearer the house. She felt so 
convinced that this promised spell of enjoyment would 
not be realized. For if Sophie Benson were to grasp 


46 SUSANNAH 

the fact that this visit was a pleasure she coveted, then 
Susannah might very well be assured that it would be 
prevented. 

But when they passed in through the porch, some 
welcome news awaited them. 

A maid gave the information that Miss Benson had 
gone to Torchester, and would not be back till late in 
the afternoon. 

‘‘ Then that’s all right,” said Lady Comeston 
cheerily. And, indeed, chance seemed to be set in her 
favour all the way round. “ Now, Sue, you leave the 
rest to me.” 

Mrs. Richland was stretched on a chaise longue drawn 
near the window. She wore a loose robe of a dull shade 
of blue that made her face more waxen, but put a sort 
of new life into her wonderful eyes. She was busy 
making a calculation with a pencil in a little book, and 
her writing-tray was on the table near. 

Her face lit up for one moment when the door opened 
and she saw Lady Corneston, who had once more pushed 
back her veil and was smiling. 

If there did exist one creature in the world capable 
of stirring Celia Richland’s heart ever so faintly, of 
lifting her out of the groove of figures and schemes 
and difficulties that constituted her world, that creature 
was her eldest child Emma. 

“Where do you spring from.? How nice you look! 
You bring a breath of Paris with you . . .” she said, 
and she returned her daughter’s kiss almost warmly. 
“I suppose you are going to stay here and join Ed- 


CHAPTER TWO 47 

mund on Thursday, Emma. Well, it is a miserable 
hole, but you must put up with it.” 

Lady Corneston only laughed. 

“ I rather like the miserable hole, mother, and I shall 
certainly come and stay with you very soon; but I am 
not going to stay now. Edmund has written to say 
he will very probably join me at the Harradays. . . . 
By the way, I hope he has sent you plenty of grouse. 
I am going to have Tora and Sue with me too at the 
Bourne for a few days.” Then very swiftly, ignoring 
the puzzled look that came into Susannah’s eyes at that 
mention of Sir Edmund’s name, and drawing a little 
piece of paper from one of the pockets of her dainty 
dust-coat. Lady Corneston said, “ There, mother, that 
is the Leger tip you asked me to get ! ... It is down- 
right bond -fide intelligence. I got it from one of the 
Blank House Stable lot ... a boy who is absolutely 
in the ‘ know.’ ” 

The way Mrs. Richland’s face flushed and her deli- 
cate hands trembled as she took the paper was quite 
pitiful. 

Susannah’s heart had that quick beat in it again, 
but it was not pleasure this time, and at that moment 
her mother looked up and caught her expression. Mrs. 
Richland frowned. 

“ Sue, please get me a glass of water, and put some 
ice in it if there is any, my throat is quite parched. 
You might ask cook to squeeze a lemon into the water.” 

As soon as they were alone, Mrs. Richland sat for- 
ward. 


48 SUSANNAH 

“ This is really good of you, Emma,” she said hur- 
riedly, “ and I must have something on. . . . But 
. . . as usual, I am awfully tight. . . . Can you help 
me.f^ I don’t want very much — only fifty pounds. I 
shall be able to give it bach to you almost directly.” 

Lady Corneston had taken off her gloves, and was 
standing in front of a long mirror, patting her hair, 
and looking with fresh criticism at the hang of the 
coat which she had designed herself. She frowned and 
then laughed at her mother’s words. 

“ Fifty pounds ! my dear mother, I haven’t got fifty 
pence ! I absolutely don’t know which way to turn for 
ready money. Edmund is more screwy than ever, and 
he goes on like a bear with a sore head if I ask him to 
increase my allowance ; the worst of it is that he has 
no idea I owe a penny, and I am up to my eyes in debt, 
as you know.” 

Mrs. Richland was biting her lip. 

Lady Corneston had reseated herself. There were 
some beautiful rings flashing on her hands, and, of 
course, she wore the inevitable coil of fine pearls round 
her pretty throat. 

“ That is new,” said Celia Richland, suddenly point- 
ing to a cluster of brilliants that fastened some lace on 
her daughter’s coat. “ At least I have never seen it 
before.” 

Lady Corneston frowned, hesitated, then frowned 
again, and then took off the brooch. 

“ Look here, mother,” she said, a trifle sharply, “ I 
can lend you this, but only for a little while. Edmund 


CHAPTER TWO 49 

bought this in Italy when we were there. Sophie can 
take it up to town. But really it can only be for a 
little time,” she added, and she parted with the brooch 
with evident reluctance. “ As it is,” she finished, “ Ed- 
mund may miss it, and you know how horribly difficult 
it is to invent things with Edmund.” 

Mrs. Richland was not listening, she was holding the 
brooch to the light, turning it round and round. Her 
small, thin hands had the look of claws in this moment, 
and the expression in her eyes had no affinity with the 
refinement of her features. 

“ They ought to give about seventy, but Sophie 
must ask a hundred,” she said, then she pushed it into 
a box standing on the table. “ Of course you shall 
have it back very quickly, Emma ; don’t worry. I shall 
put all the money on your tip. . . .” She went on 
with animation, “ The horse stands at a long price, 
so we shall get ten times our money with just a little 
luck.” 

“ Yes, or lose the lot,” said Lady Corneston, with 
a laugh that had little mirth in it. “ I feel dead out 
of luck just now, mother.” 

Mrs. Richland shivered, but Emma Corneston did not 
notice this. She rose again restlessly and stood by the 
window. 

“ I suppose you don’t mind letting Sue come to the 
Harradays for a little while, do you, mother ” she 
asked. 

Mrs. Richland was scribbling a letter to a bookmaker. 

“Mind.? . . . Certainly not, but I can’t see why you 


50 SUSANNAH 

want her, Sue is so dull. She used to be fairly bright 
and intelligent as a child, but she is a most depressing 
creature nowadays ; a sort of Sunday-school young 
person, who exudes tracts. She is astonishingly like 
your father’s mother, who was a kind of Methodist 
preacher in petticoats. Happily you take after my 
family, Emma.” Mrs. Richland’s stylographic pen 
signed her name with a flourish, and she looked up at 
her daughter now with a smile that had something of 
pride in it. “ And though most of my people were 
dogs of a sort, they were none of them dull dogs,” she 
said. 


Ill 


“ I will change my faith and my bedding, but thou must pay 
for it .” — Old Hindoo Proverb. 



ADY CORNESTON did not stay very long. She 


refused luncheon, kissed her mother, gave 


^ Susannah all sorts of commands, and quite 
thrilled the girl by her eager repetition of the plea that 
Susannah would not disappoint her. 

“ I have made it all right with mother,” she said, 
“ and to be on the safe side I shall send over for you 
a little earlier. That will give you the chance of get- 
ting away before Sophie gets back. Don’t bother 
about your clothes, you can have anything you like of 
mine. And Sue, just see that nurse is punctual. She 
is in a very bad temper, but don’t take any notice of 
her. I shall get rid of her when I get back to town.” 

Susannah went to the top gate with her sister, and 
watched her get into the smart automobile with its sun 
awning and then simply fly out of sight. 

She almost danced as she went back through the 
hot sun to the house; like a child she began to count 
the hours. 

All at once life had a new, an exquisite meaning for 
her. 

It was not merely that the music of gaiety, of 


51 


52 SUSANNAH 

pleasure called forth answering notes from her heart; 
it was the fact, that Emma had come to seek her, that 
Emma had actually remembered her, and desired to be 
with her. 

Here was something so amazing, so unexpected, that 
at odd moments Susannah could hardly bring herself 
to accept it as a truth. 

For just as she had dreamed dreams about her 
mother in the long ago ages, so she had clung to many 
hopes where Emma was concerned, and it was a love 
built up on an early and a deep love of her childhood 
that she lavished now upon Emma’s child. 

She had always longed for comradeship with her 
beautiful sister; longed to be admitted to Emma’s con- 
fidence, and she had wept bitterly when Emma had 
married and their lives had been set so far apart. 

Her thoughts sobered down gradually as she reached 
the house, and they drifted to her sister’s husband. 

Sir Edmund Comeston was in a sense a stranger to 
Susannah. She only saw him at odd times, and she 
was always a little nervous of him. There was nothing 
genial about him ; his manner was so reserved, his bear- 
ing so proud; it would be impossible to conceive two 
people more unlike than Emma Corneston and her hus- 
band. 

“ Perhaps it was my fancy, but I can’t help feeling 
that she was a little worried about that letter from 
Edmund,” Susannah said to herself slowly. “ I hope 
there is nothing wrong. And I do hope Edmund is not 
unkind to Emma. . . . She is like a child compared to 


CHAPTER THREE 53 

him, and I am sure he must be rather hard to live with. 
And yet,” came as an after- thought, “ Tora adores her 
father, and he certainly adores her! The letters he 
whites her are awfully sweet and pretty, one could 
hardly believe they were written by a man at all, much 
less such a dried-up sort of man as Edmund. So I 
suppose he is not really hard-hearted, only seems to 
be.” Susannah sighed a little. “ Perhaps I have caught 
the infection of mother’s prejudice against him. Well! 
if there is any little bother I shall try and make Emma 
tell me all about it, I might be able to help her. . . . 
Who knows ? ” 

She went up to her mother’s room again. 

Mrs. Richland had ceased writing for the moment, 
and was lying back in the long chair. 

Half timidly Susannah went about doing those things 
which she knew Sophie did about this time, but her 
mother sent her away. 

“ You had better go and put your things together. 
I am afraid you will be a very shabby guest, but I am 
sick and tired of preaching against your silly thrift, 
and if you find yourself looking like a rag-bag, you 
will only have yourself to blame.” 

“ Emma is going to lend me some things,” said 
the girl. A long time ago she had taught herself 
to keep her temper with her mother whatever might 
come. 

Mrs. Richland shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Pull down that blind and then leave me, my head 
aches.” 


54 SUSANNAH 

Susannah pulled down the blind and moved to the 
door and then paused. 

“ Do you mind my going, mother.? ... If you want 
me, you know I will not go? ” she said, not awkwardly, 
but wistfully. 

Mrs. Richland settled herself comfortably on her 
cushions. 

“ My dear girl, hard circumstances have taught me 
to do without so many things, and, fortunately, we are 
not indispensable to one another. Of course you must 
go, Emma expects you.” 

It was with a greatly diminished sense of gladness 
that Susannah made her preparations during the hours 
that followed. 

Her clothes were certainly shabby and few, but this 
did not trouble her; it was the old oppressive feeling 
that her mother cared neither one way or another what 
she did, that dulled the brightness of the moment. 

Then Tora’s nurse had reverted to her old scarcely 
veiled impertinence of manner. She was apparently 
much annoyed that she had to join her mistress, and 
she vented all her vexation on Susannah. 

The knowledge that she and Tora were to be together 
for a while longer was, however, a very tangible bit of 
sweetness, and as time sped away, and six o’clock ap- 
proached, Susannah’s spirit had risen again in the most 
exhilarating way. She and Tora laughed and talked as 
they climbed into the wonderful motor-car and seemed 
to skim along the road, and they clung together and 
secretly enjoyed the fright which paralyzed Nannie, 


CHAPTER THREE 55 

and enforced a temporary silence on her busy, bitter 
tongue. 

And by-and-by they passed in through a large iron 
gateway, and then all at once they were standing still 
in front of a big door, where several men-servants were 
waiting to receive them. 

And then a fussy old gentleman came forward on to 
the steps. 

“ Welcome, my dear Miss Richland, welcome to the 
Bourne,” he said, as he took both of Susannah’s hands 
in his. “ Very glad to see you. It is very good of 
you to honour us with a visit, and please remember one 
thing: we always expect travellers to return to this 
Bourne . . . ah ! ah ! ah ! ” 

This was Mr. Harraday’s stock joke, at which every- 
body was expected to laugh once. Susannah did her 
duty, and laughed heartily, but Tora gave her hand a 
trifle reluctantly to her host. She thought him noisy 
and ugly. 

Mr. Harraday was accustomed to have a cure ” 
every year, and he had just returned from Carlsbad. 
Hence the loose look of his white waistcoat, and the 
bagginess of his cheeks. 

He was certainly not handsome, but he had very kind 
eyes, and there was a genuine ring about his hospitable 
reception. 

The hall was wide and low-roofed, having beams 
across it, and opposite to the entrance was a door that 
led to the gardens ; chairs were scattered about, and in 
every corner there were large bowls of roses. It was 


56 SUSANNAH 

delightfully cool; there was an old-world grace about 
the setting of the picture which enchanted Susannah. 
Her eyes were very bright and pleased. 

Tora and her nurse were taken in hand by one of 
the footmen, and disappeared, and Susannah chatted 
happily with Mr. Harraday, who was only too glad to 
have a new listener. 

In a far-off corner of the hall, smoking, and appear- 
ing to read a newspaper, and well hidden by a screen, 
was a young man in white flannels. He watched 
Susannah in a critical and an amused kind of way. 

He noticed that her pique gown was home-washed, 
and too short, and that her brown shoes were country 
made, though the feet within them were neither large 
nor unshapely. When she took off her hat and tried 
to smooth back her hair, which the quick transit in the 
motor-car had ruffled, this quiet observer remarked that 
she only ruffled it more ; but she was so lost in admiring 
the old house, in following Mr. Harraday’s history of 
the wonderful old hall, that she evidently did not give a 
thought to her appearance. 

“ So that is Tora’s ‘ Auntie Sue,’ is it ? ” said the 
young man to himself. He was really quite interested. 
He put down the newspaper and continued to watch the 
old man and the girl in the out-of-date pique dress, 
till a maid came running down the staircase, and 
Susannah disappeared. 

She was taken to a delightful room, low-roofed, with 
old-fashioned casements, and she was just making a 
delighted acquaintance with this room and its contents 


CHAPTER TPIREE 57 

when her sister’s French maid knocked at the door, and 
entered. 

The maid brought a message from Lady Comeston, 
asking Miss Richland to go to her at once. 

Susannah found Lady Corneston in a larger, and, if 
possible, a more delightful apartment than the one 
which had been given to her. 

A wrap of some white clinging material was flung 
about Emma ; she looked wonderfully pretty. 

Susannah’s heart went out to her sister. 

“ Emma darling, it is sweet of you to have brought 
me here. What a lovely house! One feels as if one 
had gone back into the Middle Ages.” 

“ With a few more comforts, let us hope,” said Lady 
Corneston. She pushed a chair near the window. “ Sit 
there. Sue, and let us have a cosy chat. I have told 
Melanie to take you in a few odds and ends of things. 
I think there is a gown you can wear to-night quite 
easily. We are much about the same size, fortunately. 
I will send Melanie to fix you up. You had better let 
her do your hair too.” 

Susannah took the chair and bent forward to look 
eagerly at the expanse of lawn and cultivated garden 
that was seen from the window. 

“ Thank you, darling, you are too good. Emma, 
do you know, I almost wish I had not come here, it will 
be so hard to go away.” 

Lady Corneston did not sit down ; she seemed restless 
and undecided, as though weighted with some important 
communication, yet nervous how to start her task. 


58 SUSANNAH 

Susannah drifted quickly into a kind of day dream. 
The effect of the fading sun on the trees enchanted her. 
It was a picture of a new life at which she was looking. 

The moving figures on the croquet-lawn, the click of 
the balls ringing out musically on the still summer even- 
ing air. The men-servants clearing away the tea- 
table, and its glittering silver effects. A woman, ele- 
gantly dressed, sauntering idly towards the house. In 
everything was struck the note of idleness and wealth, 
and Susannah suddenly felt that that note called up a 
dangerously responsive one in her own nature. 

Suddenly Lady Corneston spoke. 

“ Sue,” she said in a pathetic sort of way, “ I won- 
der if you really care for me? ” 

Instantly the dream faded, the harmonious delight 
was broken. 

Quivering a little, Susannah turned and looked at 
her sister, and then rose. 

“ Emma ! ” she said. 

Lady Corneston called her away from the window. 

“ Come here,” she called, ‘‘ I have something to say 
to you, something very particular.” 

When Susannah had approached her she put out 
both her hands, and took both of Susannah’s. 

“ I know you love Tora, but do you love me . . . 
really, and really love me ? ” 

Susannah’s hands turned a little cold. 

“ Don’t you think that is rather a silly question ? ” 
she said, and she tried to speak lightly. 

Lady Corneston wrenched her hands free, and, turn- 


CHAPTER THREE 59 

ing away, leaned against the mantel-shelf, her face 
buried on her white, draped arms. 

“ Sue,” she said in an indistinct voice, “ I . . . am 
in awful trouble . . 

Susannah stared at her; words would not come at 
first, then the whole loving impulse of her being stirred 
her to action. 

She moved forward, and put her hands on her sis- 
ter’s shoulder. 

‘‘ Don’t — don’t, Emma darling,” she stammered, “ I 
can’t bear to see you like that. ... You know . . . 
you know I love you. . . . Oh, Emma, do let me do 
something . . . tell me what it is. . . . Don’t cry 
. . . darling, darling, please don’t cry.” 

She put her arms about that figure of sorrow, and 
drew her sister’s tear-stained face to her breast. She 
held Emma as though the other woman were her child. 
Her lips went softly to Lady Corneston’s hot brow, and 
she kissed it, as she was wont to kiss Tora when any 
little accident occurred. 

Her tenderness, her whole-hearted love, were very 
acceptable to the weeping woman. 

Emma Comeston had been playing with fire far too 
often during the last year or two, now a sudden gust 
of flame had been swept out by an untoward wind, and 
had just caught her; it was merely a scorch, but it 
left a scar, and, worse than this, it had shown her the 
fiery heart of the fire that blazed so unpleasantly near. 

She was thoroughly frightened for perhaps the first 
time in her life, and, by a veritable touch of irony. 


60 SUSANNAH 

threatened to be punished for something she had not 
done ; that was, perhaps, the hardest part of all to her. 

Susannah calmed her by degrees ; she bathed the red 
eyes with water, she made Emma swallow a few drops 
of “ Fleurs d’Oranger,” and she murmured tender, com- 
forting words all the time. 

When Lady Corneston had recovered a little, Susan- 
nah then remembered the cause of all this distress, and 
her heart began to beat apprehensively. 

“You . . . you are going to let me help you, 
Emma?” Then, in a low voice, “Is it something 
to do with Edmund? ” 

Lady Corneston puckered her lips, tears were still 
near her eyes. She could only nod her head. 

Susannah took one of her hands and caressed it. 

“ Tell me,” she whispered. “ Do tell me all, dar- 
ling.” 

Lady Corneston suddenly kissed her sister. 

“ Yes . . . you do love me. Sue,” she said. “ I was 
wrong to doubt it for a moment, but I have been so 
worried! . . . Everything has seemed upside down. 
Do you know, Sue, the thought of you has been my one 
comfort! ... I have longed for you. Sue. . . . Oh! 
I can’t tell you how I have longed for you! . . . and 
now that you are here I can hardly believe you are your 
real self.” She rested her head on Susannah’s shoul- 
der, and closed her eyes. “ I am so tired. Sue, . . . 
tired with misery. I haven’t slept for three nights. 
Edmund has always been hard ... he never under- 
stood me ” — she murmured all this in a dull, low voice 


CHAPTER THREE 61 

— “ he ought to have married quite another sort of 
woman . . . some one old and stodgy like himself. You 
know how young I was, Sue, when I married him. I 
had not even commenced to enjoy life as other girls 
enjoy it, and he never realized this. He began shut- 
ting me up like a prisoner, and he wouldn’t let me do 
this or that, ... he was jealous if I looked out of the 
window. Then I spoke out, we had a kind of row, and 
he changed things a little. Still, he has always been 
hard, and jealous, and suspicious, and no one but Ed- 
mund,” finished Lady Corneston hotly, “ could possibly 
have behaved so brutally, so cruelly, as he is behaving 
now. He has written me the most shameful letter any 
man could write to his wife, and I know ... I know he 
means every word he has written ! Sue ” — her voice 
was rather choked — “ would you believe it, he actually 
refuses to have me back to live with him . . . says he 
will never let me see Tora, that . . . that he will allow 
me five hundred a year, and that only on condition that 
I live with my mother. I would let you see his letter, 
but I really can’t bring myself to show it to any one, 
not . . . not even to you. Sue.” 

Susannah was trembling; hot as the summer evening 
was, she felt as cold as though it were mid-winter. 

“ Oh ! there must be some — some awful mistake, 
Emma ! ”... she said in a low voice. “ He couldn’t 
do this! How could he? . . . You are his wife, . . . 
you have done nothing wrong. ... It cannot be true, 
Emma dear I ” 

“ It is true, every word of it,” said Lady Corneston, a 


62 SUSANNAH 

little hysterically, “and . . . and I think he has just 
broken my heart. . . 

Susannah clung to her sister’s hand. 

“ But . . , what for.? . . . What reason does he 
give you, . . . you cannot be punished for no reason, 
Emma. . . . Have you quarrelled.? ” 

Lady Comeston took away her hand, and began to 
pace the room. 

“ It is all his stupid, mad jealousy, and his horrid 
stuck-up pride ! ” she said. “ I cannot begin to tell you. 
Sue, what I have suffered through Edmund’s jealousy. 
... I suppose he would have liked to keep me in a 
cage, or let me go about wearing a mask. It is not my 
fault if people admire me, is it.? I am not a monster. 
... We used to have ever so many scenes, but lately I 
thought he was beginning to be more sensible. And 
now, just because some hateful cat of a person must 
have made mischief, he sits down and writes me this hor- 
rible, this insulting letter ! ” 

She paused, but Susannah said nothing, and uncon- 
scious of the silence, thoroughly wound up on the sub- 
ject of what she considered her wrongs. Lady Corneston 
continued talking peevishly, excitedly. 

“ And why on earth he should suddenly turn round 
and imagine things about Adrian Thrale, passes my 
comprehension! Now, if it had been . . .” — she pulled 
herself up very sharply, and went on hurriedly — 
“ Fancy being jealous of Adrian, whom Edmund has 
known from a little boy, and whom I always imagined 
he was so fond of 1 Of course Adrian has admired me. 


CHAPTER THREE 63 

but don’t think me conceited, Sue, so many others are 
silly about me that Adrian should not be blamed for 
that, and then Edmund knows that there will be a most 
awful row with old Mrs. Thrale if a scandal of this sort 
is spread about ! But that is so like Edmund ! He must 
think of himself before all the world; himself and his 
position, and his name, ... no one else matters ! . . . 
People call him a good man, a splendid man ! Just let 
them live a little while with Edmund, and then they 
would see what sort of a man he really is.” 

Susannah bit her lip. She felt that she was almost 
crying, and she did not want to cry. . . . She wanted to 
help Emma to do something to set this very real trouble 
right. . . . Lady Comeston’s hot hurried words con- 
veyed very little of the real meaning of the story to 
Susannah. 

She only grasped the unhappy fact that Emma was 
in great trouble, and had turned to her sister for com- 
fort, for help. 

“ Tell me what I can do, Emma,” she whispered. 
“ Would it be any good if I were to see Edmund, or 
write to him.?* He must be very angry, from what you 
tell me ; but — but I will go to him, if you think I should 
do any good.” 

Lady Corneston laughed. 

“ Dear Sue,” she said, “ you don’t know Edmund. 
He is as hard as iron, as stubborn as a mule. When 
once he has got an idea fixed into his mind, steam-rollers 
won’t crush it out, unless, of course, he is confronted 
with some fact which is so much stronger than his sus- 


64 SUSANNAH 

picion that he is bound by all the laws of reason to give 
way. No, my dear Sue, I certainly should not allow you 
to go, only to be bullied, and perhaps insulted, and to 
have to listen to a tissue of lies about me ” 

There was a silence ; Lady Comeston broke off here. 

“ You look awfully white. Sue,” she remarked ab- 
ruptly. “ I am afraid I have upset you. I am so 
sorry.” 

“ I was up at half -past three this morning, picking 
mushrooms,” said Susannah. She gave a little sigh, 
and she passed her hand over her eyes. How far away 
that morning seemed, with its exquisite silence, and its 
grey mist, and its rose-red dawn ! “ But I was not a bit 

tired till now ; and now ” Her voice broke. “ Oh, 

Emma, it hurts me so dreadfully to know that you are 
in such trouble! There must be some way I can help 
you ; surely I can do something! ” 

Lady Corneston got up. 

“ There is no way,” she began ; and then she stopped. 
“ Yes, there is one way, and only one. Edmund is a 
mountain of suspicion; but, as I said just now, even he 
is open to conviction, if he is forced to see that he has 
made a great mistake.” She paused a little uncertainly. 
“ Of course nothing can ever do away with the cruel 
wrong to me,” she said ; then, nervously, irritably, “ or 
the unjustness and folly of imagining ridiculous things 
about a man whom he pretends to call his friend. Still, 
when I stop and remember all that his letter said ; when 
I think of the disgrace, of how people will talk — ^be- 
cause, however quietly this kind of thing is done, people 


CHAPTER THREE 65 

are sure to get to know about it; — and when I think 
that Tora, my own child, my darling, pretty Tora, is to 
be taken from me, I — am hardly sane. Sue. And I 
feel there is nothing, nothing I must not attempt, to 
make Edmund see how wrong he is, to be able to — to 
keep my child and my proper position. That is why 

I ” She broke off again. Somehow Susannah’s pale 

face, with its look of pain and simplicity, took her usual 
boldness from her. “ I should never dream of suggest- 
ing what I am going to suggest,” she said very hur- 
riedly, “ if the position were not so serious ; but it is 
serious. Sue. It is like the end of my life, in a way; 

and it is for Tora’s sake more even than for mine ” 

Once more she broke off ; then, standing with her face 
averted, she said a few more words in an awkward kind 
of way. 

Susannah looked at her as she finished. The girl’s 
brows were puckered; her young face looked quite 
worn. 

“ You want me to say that I ” she began ; then, 

very quickly, “ But how could I I don’t even know 

Mr. Thrale.? I Oh, Emma dear, I could not! It 

would be dishonest ; it — it would be a kind of lie 1 ” 

Lady Comeston bit her lip. 

“ But you don’t understand,” she said hurriedly. 
“ Of course I don’t mean anything real or serious. 
Why, you need not even speak to Adrian unless you 
like; and no one need know anything about it except 
just ourselves. With tact, the whole thing could be ar- 
ranged so easily I . . . Surely, Sue, you can't mind pre- 


66 SUSANNAH 

tending something for a little while, when you know it 
will give me back my peace of mind — stand between me 
and disgrace? Do you realize,” she asked with sudden 
bitterness, ‘‘ what my future will be if Edmund is not 
shown how wrong he is ? ” 

“ Will another wrong do that ? ” asked Susannah in 
a low voice. “ I don’t believe in lies and tricks.” 

Lady Corneston got suddenly impatient and hys- 
terical. 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Sue, don’t preach; don’t 
put yourself on a pedestal and talk goody-goody non- 
sense! Everybody has to pretend now and then in 
life. You know that quite well. So why should you be 
so much better than anybody else ? ” 

Susannah looked at her sister half wistfully. 

“ I could not do it, Emma,” she said — “ I could not. 
Don’t ask me. Really, I could not ; it is impossible ! ” 

“ And yet you say you love me ! ” said Emma Cornes- 
ton in a broken voice. When her lips were puckered 
and her eyes filled with tears, there was a painful, a 
pathetic likeness between herself and little Tora. 

“ And you hnow I love you,” Susannah answered al- 
most passionately. “ Give me something to do that I 
can do, and I will prove to you how much I love you, 
Emma.” Her tone changed. “ Listen, darling,” she 
said eagerly. “ Do let me go to Edmund ! I won’t be- 
lieve that he would not listen to me. Somehow I feel as 
if he must be very unhappy just now. ... I have 
grown to know him a little bit better just lately, Emma, 
because of his letters to Tora. I am sure he is not 


CHAPTER THREE 67 

really hard-hearted ; he could not love Tora so much if 
he were. I am not afraid to go, Emma. ... I will 
not leave him till I have made everything right.” 

But Lady Corneston was crying. 

“You don’t know; you don’t understand,” she said 
brokenly. “ You have taken away my one hope.” 

Susannah sat down by her sister. 

“ Dearest,” she said, “ be reasonable. Even if — if 
I were to do this — if we should pretend that I ” — the 
words would not come easily — “ that Mr. Thrale had 
asked me to marry him, and that I had — accepted him, 
how could that move Edmund.^ He must know that I 
have never even met Mr. Thrale. It would only make 
him more suspicious. And then, if the truth came out, 
things would be a thousand times worse; he would de- 
spise me. Oh, the very thought makes me hot ! No, no; 
anything but this. If you were in my place, Emma, 
you would feel as I do.” 

“You are horribly selfish!” said Emma Corneston, 
drying her eyes and hardening her face. “ Yes, 
yes . . , you are! ... You think only of what you 
feel, and you don’t stop to think of the misery in front 
of me. . . . What harm can a thing of this sort do 
you.^ . . . Heaps of women, I can tell you, would 
give their eyes to have the chance of being engaged to 
Adrian Thrale for a few days! . . . You are too dull 
and old-fashioned for words. Sue! Mother was only 
saying to-day that you have grown into a hopelessly 
priggy kind of person. I thought you would have en- 
joyed helping me . . . enjoyed having a few days’ 


68 SUSANNAH 

fun, and it can all be so easily arranged. Edmund 
knows that Adrian is a relation of your landlord at the 
farm ... so it would only be natural that you should 
have met. Besides, as I told you, it need only be for a 
little while; then you can pretend to break off the en- 
gagement. Oh, Sue, don’t be so hard ! You are as bad as 
Edmund . . . quick to talk of love and all the rest, but 
quite unable to prove that love when you are asked to 
do some little thing ! ” 

Susannah was sitting with her elbows on her knees, 
her face bowed on her hands. 

She got up ; her cheeks were wet with tears. 

“ I am sorry,” she said indistinctly. “ I would do 
anything possible to help you, but this is not possible, 
Emma. It was a mistake to come! . . . You . . . 
must please help me to get away at once ... I could 
not stay here now. . . .” 

Lady Corneston looked at her in a quick, a frightened 
fashion. 

“ Oh, you must stay,” she said ; “ there is no way of 
getting back to the farm now, and Ada and Mr. Har- 
raday would think it so strange. Then what would 
mother say, and Sophie.? Don’t be hysterical and 
stupid. Sue . . . you must see that you must 
stay. . . .” 

“ There is no must about it,” said Susannah proudly 
and coldly. “ I refuse to stay. These people are noth- 
ing to me. They are your friends; you brought me 
here, and you know why I am going. Tell them what 
you like. ... I shall walk back to Hernstone. . . .” 


CHAPTER THREE 69 

Emma Corneston suddenly flung herself before her 
sister. 

‘‘ Sue . . . you can’t go. . . . Sue, darling, I did 
not mean to be horrid. ... For God’s sake don’t turn 
against me! ... I have no one but you to help me 
now . . . my own sister. ... If you had turned to 
me. Sue, I should have helped you.” She was crying 
again. “ I ... I canH be disgraced . . . laughed at 
by other women. . . . Would you like to know that 
Tora should be taught to believe she had no mother? 
Oh, Sue, Sue 1 ” — the pretty little creature, tear- 
stained, trembling, her hair dishevelled, her face dis- 
figured, sank suddenly on to the ground at Susannah’s 
feet, and clung to the girl’s knees. “ Listen . . . I . . . 
I must tell you. ... I was so — so sure you would help 
me . . . and I never thought you would mind ... so 
I wrote to Edmund last Thursday night, and told him 
that . . . that you and Adrian Thrale were engaged. 
He must have got the letter after he had written to 
you. . . . Sue,” — she dragged herself on her knees 
along the carpet as the girl recoiled from her, — ^“you 
must stand by me. . . . Oh, you must, you must! 

. . . I . . . made out I had never received his letter 
. . . that . . . awful one, you know, and I wrote . . . 
as ... as if nothing had . happened . . . and . . . 
now at this moment everything is all right; I feel 
it ... I know it! . . . Edmund thinks so much of 
you. He will believe ever 3 rthing if only you will stand 
by what I have done. . . . And if you don’t . . . then 
things will be worse — much, much worse,” said Emma 


70 SUSANNAH 

Comeston, her pretty voice all hoarse and strained; 
“ and sooner than endure all the horror ... I ... I 
tell you, Sue, I shall put an end to myself. ... I 
shall . . . ! ” 

She broke off, panting. 

Susannah looked at her sister. 

“ Get up ! ” she said coldly. Don’t kneel to me, 
Emma ; please get up ! ” 

Lady Comeston got up and hurriedly swept her face 
with her handkerchief, pushing her hair from her brow; 
she was trembling. Suddenly a pang like a mortal 
pain went through Susannah’s heart. Her sense of out- 
raged dignity, her undisguised aversion for the decep- 
tion, her anger faded. She turned away, and then she 
paused, and, turning back, she went up to her sister 
and stood beside her. 

“ You have asked me to do something for you, Emma. 
You have called for my love. All my life I have been 
waiting for you to remember me.” Susannah’s voice 
was blotted as it were with tears. “ Ever since I was a 
tiny little thing I have longed to be something to you, 
to feel that you cared for me just a little. You cannot 
imagine what delight you gave me when you let me sup- 
pose for a little while that you had need of me to-day ; 
. . . when you begged me to come here. . . . And 
now ” — she caught her breath — “ you have . . . have 
asked me for a proof of my love! . . . Well, it . . . isn’t 
perhaps a very big thing to you, Emma ... it is not 
a good thing . . . but I can’t remember what is good 
now. I only know I ... I can’t refuse the first thing 


CHAPTER THREE 71 

you ask me. ... I ... I will try,” she broke off, her 
words were not very distinct, “ because I love you, 
Emma . . . because I love you,” she whispered pas- 
sionately. 

Lady Corneston put her flushed, wet cheek against 
Susannah’s pale one, and her heart began to beat evenly 
once more. She kissed, and she whispered, and she said 
all sorts of tender untrue things ; and then she urged the 
girl to go and rest. 

“ Darling Sue ! ” she murmured ; “ my own dear little 
sister Sue! Oh, what a comfort you are!” Then she 
scolded caressingly. “ The idea of getting up at half- 
past three! No wonder you look like a ghost! . . . Go 
and take off your dress and lie down. Melanie shall tell 
you when it is time to dress. Dinner is not till half- 
past eight.” 

Susannah returned her sister’s kisses, but she was 
conscious of an intense relief when she was outside the 
room. Her head was buzzing, she felt exactly as though 
she were drugged. ... A httle way along the passage 
was a window and a big cushioned seat. She went there 
and sat down. The game of croquet was over, and 
odds and ends of people were wandering about the 
lawn. Susannah watched them in a stupid sort of way, 
and yet all the time she was conscious that she was not 
really stupid, only that she was pausing before starting 
on a new road, a road she was afraid to travel. The 
muffled sensation in her brain would pass only too 
quickly. Though she was very, very tired, she had 
no desire to go to her room and rest. She had a dread 


72 SUSANNAH 

of being alone, a dread of letting her mind become alert 

again. 

Suddenly, as a tall clock that stood in a comer 
chimed, she looked round with a start. 

“ A quarter-past seven, and I promised to see Tora in 
her bath. I hope I am not too late.” She brushed her 
brow. “How horribly tired I feel!” she laughed 
feebly. “ I will never steal mushrooms again,” she said. 
“ It is much too fatiguing, and so ... so silly too, 
when one can buy them in Torchester all prettily ar- 
ranged in baskets with pink paper inside. . . . Some- 
times Sophie is horribly, hatefully right. ... I am 
such a fool! ... I waste so much time. ... I ... ” 
She bit her lip so sharply that she hurt herself, and 
then seeing a maid in the distance she got up with an 
effort, and asked to be directed to the rooms given to 
Lady Comeston^s little girl. 


IV 

“ Je ne vous aime pas, Hylas! 

Je n’en saurais pas dire la cause. 

Je sais seulement une chose: 

C’est que je ne vous aime pas.” 

Bussy. 

T he maid took Susannah down the passage, 
and turning a corner indicated the rooms 
where Tora was lodged. Susannah paused a 
moment as the servant left her. It was evident that 
something of a merry, happy nature was going on 
inside Tora’s nursery. For the child was laughing. 
The air rang with that little shrill peal of laughter 
which Susannah always loved to provoke. 

It was most unusual for Nannie to encourage hilarity 
at this time of day, neither did Tora laugh in this 
fashion, as a rule, when alone with her nurse. Susannah 
was puzzled. 

The door of the first room was ajar, and she pushed 
it open. 

A strange sight met her eyes. 

Nurse was not visible, and Tora, swathed about in the 
big flannel bath apron, her sleeves tucked up, and her 
hair pinned into a topknot, was engaged in pouring 
water from one of the jugs on to the head of some one 

73 


74 SUSANNAH 

seated hunched up in her bath, some one fully dressed in 
white flannels; some one with the most delightful ex- 
pression, and the handsomest face possible, who was 
pretending immense terror, and must undoubtedly have 
been extremely uncomfortable, for though Tora’s trav- 
elling bath was fairly large, he was much bigger, and it 
was an evidently tight squeeze to get his long legs 
tucked in at all. Tora was scolding in a very good im- 
itation of her Nannie, varying this by that happy out- 
break of laughter ever and anon as her “ child ” whim- 
pered and called aloud for mercy. 

Tired as she was, Susannah found herself smiling un- 
consciously as she stood and watched the proceedings a 
moment. Then Tora saw her. 

“ Oh, Auntie Sue, do look ! ” she cried excitedly. 
“ Isn’t it lovally.? Nonie would get in my bath, and so 
I’ve wetted him. It’s real water. . . . Look, do look. 
Auntie Sue ! ” she repeated, and with that she hoisted up 
the jug, and emptied the remaining contents with a 
splash. The occupant of the bath got up hastily, 
laughing heartily^ and shaking himself as a big dog 
might have done. His curly hair was dripping, and his 
well-cut coat clung to his form, articulating the finely 
moulded back and shoulders. 

“ I say, Tora, that’s not fair! ” he cried. “ It was to 
be all play and no water. . . . And now see what you 
have done.f^ You have made Jack a very wet boy.” 

But Tora only laughed and danced about him like a 
little savage. 

“ You shouldn’t have put the water in the jug. Nan- 


CHAPTER FOUR 75 

nie said you wasn’t to. Auntie Sue, you know Nannie 
never gives me real water, does she? ” 

“ Next time,” said the culprit, trying to wriggle 
himself away from the clammy embrace of his soaked 
garments, “ I shall do as I am told. . . . You see if I 
don’t.” He smiled into Susannah’s eyes. “ Well, I 
have been swearing at the heat all the day, now I am 
cool enough with a vengeance ! . . . Tora, if you hear 
me groaning loudly, and see me tied into big knots to- 
morrow, you will be so sorry for me, won’t you? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Susannah, speaking here almost invol- 
untarily, “ you ought to change your things at once.” 

There was a delicious and wholly unconscious sug- 
gestion of motherliness in her words and tone. But 
Tora was very hard-hearted. 

“ As if you could be tied into knots. Silly ! You’re 
not a piece of string. You’re a man, a big man, and 
you shouldn’t cry when you’re hurted.” 

The speech ended in a shriek, for Tora had to flee be- 
fore a wrathful pursuer, and when she was caught she 
was firstly tickled till she cried for mercy, and then 
kissed, and finally hoisted up till she sat on the top of 
that wet curly head. 

“ Now, Auntie Sue, what shall we do with her? ” de- 
manded the victor. 

Susannah was blushing, and somehow she was trem- 
bling with a strange excitement. That woolly sensa- 
tion had gone from her brain. It needed no very re- 
markable instinct to reveal to her the identity of this 
very intimate friend of Tora’s. 


76 SUSANNAH 

“ Isn’t it bedtime? ” she asked rather feebly. “ Tora, 
where is nurse? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Tora, sitting quite contentedly 
on the curly head, “ but I fink she’s ’musing herself. 
She’s a lot good tempereder. Auntie Sue ! She’s found a 
friend . . . that thin footman with the red hair. Nan- 
nie loves red hair, and she always lets me do lots and lots 
of fings I mustn’t do when she’s ’mused.” 

This Tora said whilst she drummed with her little 
heels on the broad chest of her support. All at once 
she was slipped from her perch, given a good hug, and 
then put on the ground. But she clung to the wet 
coat tails. 

“Oh! Nonie . . . Nonie, donH go I . . . you said 
you wouldn’t. Auntie Sue, make him stay. Just one 
teeny bit longer, Nonie dear. Just till Nannie comes. 
Then you shall kiss me and go.” 

Adrian Thrale promptly sat on the floor. 

“ With such a gift in prospect I must remain, mustn’t 
I? ” he declared. 

Susannah wished he would not look into her eyes in 
that quizzical fashion ; . . . wished she could steady her 
limbs, and not tremble so visibly: wished he would go 
away ; . . . wished she hardly knew what. 

She answered him a little stiffly: that old-fashioned 
touch he had remarked in her when he had watched her 
in the hall coming out strongly now. 

“ You really ought to take off those wet things, and 
it is getting late,” she said. 

“ That means, Victoria, my angel, that Auntie Sue 


CHAPTER FOUR 77 

doesn’t approve of me and my goings on,” he remarked 
solemnly to Tora. 

The child looked at Susannah a little wistfully. She 
was so pretty in this moment with her flushed cheeks 
and her bunched-up hair and the big apron all awry. 

“ Don’t you like Nonie.'^ ” she asked. “ Oh, he’s my 
great, great friend, isn’t you, Nonie.? Oh, you’ve got 
to like Nonie, Auntie Sue. . . . He hasn’t any father 
or mummy like me. He’s a poor thing, and I love him, 
don’t I, Nonie ” 

Adrian Thrale drew her towards him, and closed the 
eager little lips with a kiss, then, vaulting to his feet 
with Tora’s two hands clinging to his left hand, he 
stretched the other out to Susannah. 

“ I hope you, too, are going to be kind to a poor or- 
phan lad ! ” he said softly. 

There was mischief in his look and laughter in his 
tone. 

Susannah drew back from him. She suddenly felt 
gauche and miserable . . . she felt angry too. She 
thoroughly disliked him and his handsome face, and she 
hotly resented his debonair manner. Why, he treated 
her just in the same easy, familiar way that he treated 
Tora ! 

Adrian let his hand drop quickly, so quickly that 
Tora had not remarked that it had been offered and 
refused. 

“ Here comes Nannie at last ! ” he said. 

Nurse’s expression was not extremely pleasant, and 
Adrian had ways of his own calculated to appease the 


78 SUSANNAH 

wrath of the most snappish person in existence. He in- 
sisted upon clearing up all the disorder ; he made himself 
most useful, and when he went away he left quite a 
genial atmosphere behind him, and something that found 
its way from his pocket to nurse’s ready hand. And 
afterwards Susannah went through all the little cere- 
monies of Tora’s undressing and preparation for bed 
with a good attempt at enjoyment. But the perception 
of children is very keen at times. 

“ You was so happy to come here. Auntie Sue . . . 
and now . . . you look so cross ! ” said Tora, when she 
had eaten bread and milk and was safely in bed. 
“Have you got a pain.?^ Will you have some of that 
pepperstuff out of the green bottle that nurse gives me 
when I eat too much.? ” 

“ Now then. Miss Tora ... go to sleep, if you 
please,” said nurse briskly. She was hurrying through 
her duties, eager to go down to the servants’ quarters 
again. 

Tora whimpered a little. 

“ I want to kiss my mother,” she said. “ I haven’t 
kissed my mummy for ever such a long time.” 

Susannah gave an order to nurse. 

“ Please ask Lady Comeston to come here, and then 
you can go and have your supper, nurse. ... I will 
stay with Miss Tora.” 

She had her head on Tora’s pillow and was whispering 
the customary bedtime fairy story when Emma Comes- 
ton came into the room with much rustling of silken 
skirts. 


CHAPTER FOUR 79 

“What is it? Nurse says you want me. Are you ill, 
Sue? ” 

She spoke crossly. 

Was Susannah going to upset everything just when 
it was all so well arranged? People with scruples, and 
consciences, and things like that, were always so un- 
satisfactory ! 

Tora sat up and stretched out two small arms. 

“ Mummy ! . . . my pretty mummy ! ” she said, “ I 
want to kiss you.” 

“ I want to stay upstairs, Emma,” said Susannah in 
a weary voice. “ I am horribly tired. ... I ... I 
feel so stupid. It has been such a long, hot day. . . . 
I don’t believe I could sit through dinner. . . . Can 
you make an excuse? ” 

Lady Comeston was kissing her child. 

Sometimes she was really quite fond of Tora. 

“ Of course,” she said hurriedly, “ I will explain to 
Ada. ... I can say that the motor upset you . . . 
made you giddy ... it often does the first time, you 
know. You had better go to bed at once. Sue.” 

“ I am going to stay with Tora for a little while.” 

The faint glimmer of the night-light, mingling in 
with the fading streaks of light from outside, made the 
room dim. 

Lady Comeston could not see Susannah’s face very 
clearly. 

She frowned. 

That was the worst of Susannah, she would take 
everything so seriously. 


80 SUSANNAH 

“ Well, go to bed soon,” said Lady Corneston, and 
with a farewell kiss to Tora, she went away. 

Susannah put her head down on the pillow again, and 
watched the last glimmer of day fade into a restful 
twilight. 

There was a young moon, and gradually its tender 
light began to filter through the branches of the big 
trees, and to throw a faint sheen of silver through the 
window that was set widely open. 

It was very, very quiet, and the room was pleasantly 
fresh and cool. 

Tora moved restlessly for a time, but at last she set- 
tled down with her head in a corner, and when Susannah 
whispered her name softly a few minutes later there was 
no answer. 

The girl shifted her position a little; she lay where 
she could see the sky, and the pale moon. 

It was strange to realize that this was the same sky 
at which she had sat and gazed in the apple-orchard 
at dawn. 

Then, every instant had brought some new sugges- 
tion of life, every fresh gradation of colour, of 
strengthening light, had announced the approach of 
majesty, had been alive with intention: eager as it were 
to swell the pageant that heralded the coming of the 
day. Now ail was still; a cold, a melancholy stillness. 

There was the grandeur, the immensity of solitude 
surrounding the moon as it rose slowly above the earth ; 
but that glorious sensation of vitality, that wholly in- 
definable ecstasy that had made her heart thrill, and had 


CHAPTER FOUR 81 

brought the tears unconsciously to her eyes, had van- 
ished just as all that was beautiful in her thoughts and 
hopes, vanished when her eyes were open and the time 
of dreams came to an end. 

Susannah put out her hand and let it rest where it 
could touch the child’s warm body ; it was a happiness 
to know she was not really so lonely as she felt. And 
gradually the moon and the dark clear sky and the 
faintly moving branches of the trees faded into a kind 
of mist . . . the sound of Tora’s even breathing seemed 
far away: Susannah’s head sank a little: she was fast 
asleep ! 


V 

“The painter Orbaneja of Ubeda, if he chanced to draw a 
cock, he wrote under it, ‘This is a cock,’ lest the people should 
take it for a fox .” — Don Quixote, chap. xix. 


A drian THRALE was not long getting out of 
his wet clothes. 

^ He flung his white flannels to his man. 

‘‘ You can keep them,” he observed. 

The valet took the gift as a matter of course, and 
promptly proceeded to turn out the pockets. 

He handed his master various odds and ends of 
things, including a letter. 

“ Have you got your gold cigarette-case, sir? ” he 
asked. 

Mr. Thrale glanced at the table. 

“ No, go and look for it. . . . Have you put out 
my things? Then I can manage by myself. You will 
probably find the case either in the hall or out on the 
lawn somewhere, Haines.” 

He dressed quickly, and then picked up the letter his 
valet had taken from his pocket. It was unopened, and 
he stood turning it round and round on his fingers with 
the faintest of faint frowns knitting his brows, then 
with an impatient gesture he flung it back on the table 
unopened. 


82 


CHAPTER FIVE 83 

“ That will keep,” he said to himself as he lounged 
forward to the window. 

“ All the same,” he mused on a little grimly, it 
would complicate matters considerably if the old lady 
were to hear the wrong version of this business. But 
that is not likely to happen. Just a little common or 
garden sense, and I am convinced we shall settle this 
difficulty without resorting to any tomfoolery. Of 
course it was a bit of real bad luck that I should have 
chanced to have been at Trouville, and should have 
joined the yacht just when Comeston had had his eyes 
opened by one of Emma’s dear friends, and that sus- 
picion should have dropped on me instead of on the 
right fellow! But if Emma had not lost her head when 
that letter came, I should have done what I ought to 
have done, gone straight to Corneston, explained every- 
thing, and put everything right in no time. As it is 
that’s just what I feel like doing now.” 

He stood staring through the open window, and he 
mused on in this impatient fashion. Below on the lawn 
he could see his valet searching with a lighted match in 
every direction for his cigarette-case. 

“ The awkward part of all this is,” Adrian said to 
himself a little restlessly, after a moment, “ that I can’t 
clear the situation thoroughly unless I tell the truth, 
and that is just what Emma doesn’t want, of course. 
If, for instance, I were to let Corneston know that I was 
only asked on board the yacht to fill a gap, because 
Emma’s latest sympathy was obliged to skedaddle back 
to Aldershot in double-quick time, I might make things 


84 SUSANNAH 

a bit worse than they are now if that is possible. . . . 
I must have a good talk with Emma to-night,” Adrian 
determined. “ She promised me faithfully not to make 
a move of any sort without consulting me, so now I 
shall do my level best to make her see that the sensible, 
the only thing in fact for her to do, is what I counselled 
in the beginning — make a clean breast of it as far as 
she can to Edmund, and ask him to be kind. I firmly 
believe if she were to do this,” the young man mused on 
a moment later, “ he would change his tone immedi- 
ately. . . . Though he wrote so strongly, Corneston is 
not a man to court a scandal if it can be avoided; in 
fact, in his position he can’t afford to make his domestic 
troubles public, and as he cares more for Emma’s little 
finger than for all the rest of the universe, Tora ex- 
cepted, put together, he will be only too ready to patch 
things up and start afresh. Yes ... I must put 
things plainly to Emma to-night,” was Adrian’s final 
resolution. “ She is calmer now, and may therefore be a 
little more reasonable. Perhaps Edmund has written 
again. He too will have had time to reflect, and even 
to regret. At any rate something must be done, and 
done quickly. We have wasted several days already, 
but I have practically seen nothing of Emma since we 
came here.” 

The valet had lit a great many matches apparently in 
vain, for he was still searching in the dusk below. 

Adrian leaned through the window, and hailed to the 
man to come in. 

“ By J ove ! ” he said to himself all at once, I re- 


CHAPTER FIVE 85 

member now ! Of course I left the case on the mantel- 
shelf in Tora’s room; turned it out of my pocket when 
she put me into the bath.” 

This recollection brought a smile; his frown vanished, 
and, whistling softly, he left his room, and made his 
way to that little corner of the house where the child 
was lodged. 

The door of Tora’s sleeping-room was open. All 
was very quiet. 

He stood and called to the nurse in a very soft voice. 
As there was no answer, he ventured to advance, tread- 
ing very quietly. Just beyond, on the mantel-shelf, he 
could see the gold of his cigarette-case gleaming. 
When he was halfway across the room, however, he stood 
still and caught his breath, for all at once he realized 
that Susannah was near. 

There was something very gentle, something very 
sweet in the expression of her sleeping face. She must 
have been undoubtedly very weary ; her hair was loosened 
and fell softly about her brows. Adrian Thrale felt 
suddenly abashed, and some other new feeling stirred 
in his heart. 

It was touching to see the girl sitting like a little 
mother by the sleeping child: her own slumber robbed 
her of none of the gentle protection she seemed to give. 
And yet there was scarcely a shade of difference in the 
two quiet faces; the girl’s had the same delicate young 
look, the same innocence, the same unconscious peace as 
the child’s. 

Adrian Thrale bit his lip, turned, picked up his cig- 


86 SUSANNAH 

arette-case, and went away. On the top of the stair- 
case he met his man. 

“ Can’t find the cigarette-case anywhere, sir,” said 
the valet, and he held out a telegram as he spoke. 

“ I have found it,” said Mr. Thrale. 

The gong, announcing dinner, boomed through the 
house at that moment. 

Adrian tore open the telegram. 

‘‘ Have changed plans. Cannot be down till after 
luncheon. Please meet me at station. Coming by 
quick train. — Sarah Thrale ” — was what he read. 

The young man’s face was a study. 

“ What the devil does this mean ? ” he asked himself ; 
then he spoke to his man. “ Haines, there is an un- 
opened letter on my table, bring it to me. You can 
go,” was his next order, as the valet obeyed. 

At the risk of being late for dinner, Adrian 
Thrale paused to tear open Mrs. Thrale’s neglected 
letter. 

His expression was a curious one as he read it. It 
was dated Saturday afternoon, and had come from a 
certain well-known house in Scotland. 

“ My dear Adrian ” (it ran), 

“ Edmund Corneston, who is staying here, has just 
given me* a very unexpected but not an unwelcome piece 
of news which his wife has written him. Naturally, it 
would have been more agreeable to me to have learned 


CHAPTER FIVE 87 

of so important an event from yourself directly; but I 
won’t grumble for once. I am only too glad to know 
that you have at last followed my advice, and have de- 
cided to take a wife of your own. There will at least 
be a certain amount of novelty about this proceeding! 
. . . Moreover, from what Edmund Corneston tells me 
about this girl, I gather that, like most people (with, 
shall we say, a varied experience in matters feminine.?), 
you have chosen wisely, eschewing the world and its 
wicked ways, and going to nature, or as near to nature 
as is possible in these days. I remember to have seen 
Susannah Richland a year or so ago, when I went to 
call on her mother, in a poky flat off the Edgware Road. 
She looked rather frightened, but had a pair of remark- 
ably fine grey eyes. I like grey eyes; they generally 
denote strength of will and some originality of char- 
acter; and I am prepared to like Susannah as well as 
her eyes. I am going to London to-morrow and, after 
a few hours’ rest, I shall then join you at the Harra- 
days, with whom, as you know, I have a standing invita- 
tion. I am anxious to meet your betrothed wife. I 
hope my hunched shoulders won’t prejudice her against 
me. Tell her I have no hump on my heart. I don’t 
know how the trains run to your neighbourhood; but 
you had better come and meet all the trains in the morn- 
ing on Tuesday, and then you will not miss me. 

“ Your affectionate aunt, 

“ Sarah Thrale.” 

Adrian Thrale said a very strong word as he came 


88 SUSANNAH 

to the end of this letter; in all his life he had never 
been so angry as he was now. 

So Emma had outwitted him. 

Sometimes he was amazingly stupid. When, in her 
hysterical abandonment to despair, Lady Corneston had 
suggested all sorts of wild schemes for proving to her 
husband her absolute innocence, and his own great 
wickedness in doubting her, Adrian, genuinely unhappy 
at the little creature’s real distress, and feeling that the 
situation was serious, had promised, consolingly, his 
help in any way that was possible to him. For Sir 
Edmund’s “ bolt from the blue.” had surprised him not 
a little, and troubled him a very good deal. It was of 
Emma only that he had thought in the beginning; 
afterwards he had had time to realize that his own posi- 
tion was extremely awkward. Indeed, short of incrim- 
inating Lady Corneston by telling the truth, he hardly 
knew how he should commence to disabuse his old 
friend’s mind of a painful and groundless suspicion. 
Still, Adrian had had no intention of letting such a 
suspicion remain unrepudiated an hour longer than was 
necessary, and on one point he had been very clear, and 
that was that he should certainly not permit himself to 
be associated with any kind of deception. Tricks of the 
kind Emma had suggested were, in Adrian’s opinion, 
paltry, theatrical, and wholly objectionable. 

In his own heart Adrian had been relying almost un- 
consciously on the very sincere affection and good faith 
which Sir Edmund Corneston had bestowed on him ever 
since his schooldays to right this mistake. If Emma 


CHAPTER FIVE 89 

would only have permitted him, he would have put 
himself en route for Scotland the very night that letter 
had arrived, and have sought a personal explanation 
with the man whom he was supposed to have wronged. 
But Emma had vetoed this. She had far too much at 
stake to let Adrian and her husband meet. Not that 
she had doubted Adrian, but that she knew that such 
an interview must be very trying, and that, uncon- 
sciously, the younger man might give the truth away 
in his best efforts to protect her and re-establish him- 
self. Besides, to a woman with an intriguing mind, 
any road is preferable to the right one. Emma Cor- 
neston had fenced with danger so frequently that, when 
a very serious situation faced her, she felt she could 
only meet it with dissimulation. To her, Adrian’s sug- 
gestion of making a kind of confession and throwing 
herself on her husband’s love and generosity was sheer 
madness. 

Placed as she was, she could not court an open in- 
quiry nor take the dignified attitude of a wronged 
woman. Therefore there was only one way to thor- 
oughly settle the matter, in her opinion, and that way 
was to prove to her husband, by some natural and con- 
ventional circumstance communicated in a matter-of- 
fact way, how wrong he had been. And, to render this 
kind of manoeuvre possible, she had insisted upon Adrian 
accompanying her to the Bourne, and had very care- 
fully shrouded her actions in mystery. All this became 
as clear as daylight to Adrian Thrale now, as he stood 
on the staircase twisting his aunt’s letter in his fingers ; 


90 SUSANNAH 

and his anger against the false little creature whom 
he had so honestly desired to help was so great, so 
bitter, in this moment, that he actually felt unequal 
to going downstairs and breathing the same air as she 
breathed. And something more than anger burned in 
his heart — a sensation curiously akin to humiliation — 
as there rose before his eyes the vision of Tora’s beloved 
“ Auntie Sue,” whose wistful and tired face had claimed 
his ready sympathy, and whose shrinking aversion to 
take his hand had puzzled and vaguely piqued him. In 
her resolute and successful strategy, it was clearly evi- 
dent to him that Emma Corneston had not scrupled to 
sacrifice a good deal more than the truth. 

The voice of his host in the hall below brought to the 
young man the necessity of garbing his angry, troubled 
mind with an outward semblance of tranquillity. 

He went downstairs slowly, thrusting his aunt’s letter 
into his breast pocket, and he made a hurried apology 
to his hostess, who readily pardoned him, and, as mark 
of her forgiveness, allotted him the honour of taking 
her in to dinner. 

Adrian accepted his fate with grim resignation. 

Fortunately, Mrs. Harraday could talk a fair 
amount of nonsense single-handed. 

She was a small, thin woman with a narrow. Eastern 
type of face, and fine eyes. Her skin was rather pasty, 
and at one time she had adopted a melancholy, semi-mys- 
terious air which had suggested an inscrutable, sphinx- 
like nature: but having quite an average amount of 
common sense (except when she tried to sing) she had 


CHAPTER FIVE 91 

dropped this after awhile, and was now her nat- 
ural self. The type of woman that is more or less 
harmful. 

Her hands and feet were tiny; she had ambitions; 
spent money like water; despised her husband; and 
smoked at least twenty-five cigarettes a day. 

“ Susannah has come,” she confided to Mr. Thrale 
as they sat down, and she showed her teeth in the 
cautious way that signified a smile with her, “ but she 
isn’t on show to-night. . . . Got a headache, so Emma 
says. George met her and says she is a ‘ sweet girl,’ 
but we all know what George’s ‘ sweet girls ’ are like, 
don’t we.?* ” 

Adrian made no answer to this. It hurt him, defin- 
itely hurt him, to hear Susannah Richland’s name pass 
this woman’s lips, and to realize that Mrs. Harrada^’^ 
had been made a confederate to the plot Emma’s fertile 
brain had devised. 

From where he sat Adrian could see Lady Corneston 
very clearly. Her small head, with its masses of dark 
hair arranged in Madonna fashion, was silhouetted 
charmingly against the background of old oak. She 
was chatting away to old George Harraday as if she 
really enjoyed doing it. A certain shadow that had 
made her face pensive these last few days seemed to 
have passed away altogether. Worldling as he was, 
having been content to waste so many of his years as 
a vagrant from all elevating influences, having so little 
to admire in his past, and so much to deplore, Adrian 
Thrale was nevertheless almost startled by the revela- 


92 SUSANNAH 

tion of cunning and callous selfishness and subtle false- 
hood that lay to the account of Emma Comeston. 

He was by no means inclined to look for saints among 
the people with whom he spent his life, and he knew 
something of the spite and jealousy, and even false- 
ness, that find root in so many women’s natures, but 
this was his first experience of deliberated and matured 
deceit, and the episode had suddenly switched him away 
from his former good-humoured complaisance and semi- 
C3mical indifference. In fact he had had a shock: a 
shock that was destined to leave an ineffaceable im- 
pression. 

Little by little, however, the first hot rush of his 
indignation vanished, and when the women rose and left 
the dining-room, he was considerably calmer than he 
had been, though he was far, far away from being 
philosophical. 

He noticed that as she passed him Lady Corneston 
managed to carefully avoid meeting his eye, and this 
stirred his pulses a little. 

He sat a long while smoking and listening to the 
usual after-dinner stories, and his calmness increased. 
When he at last detached himself from the smoke and 
the fabrications, and went in search of Emma, he was 
no longer angry. 

He found her on the terrace. 

The sheen of the rich August moon fell tenderly upon 
her as she lay back luxuriously in a low chair, and pre- 
tended to be asleep. 

Nothing sweeter than her expression could well be 


CHAPTER FIVE 93 

imagined. It brought Adrian Thrale’s brows together 
in a sharp frown as he traced a faint resemblance be- 
tween Emma’s face in this moment of tranquillity and 
that other young face at which he had gazed for so 
short a spell in Tora’s room. 

He drew a chair up, and sat down close beside Lady 
Comeston, who woke from her doze with a clever little 
start. 

“ Oh, dear, I am so tired ! ” she murmured plaintively. 
“ It has been so hot ! ” Then a trifle inconsequently, 
“ Isn’t it a glorious night ? ... 1 have never seen a 
more lovely moon . . . have you.^ ” 

“ It seemed to me a very fine moon at Trouville, and 
equally fine here last night,” said Adrian. “ In fact 
I seem to have seen a good deal of excellent moonshine 
at odd times in my life.” 

There was a little pause, then he sat forward and 
looked at Lady Corneston in a steady sort of way. 

“ Emma,” he said suddenly, “ you are an amazingly 
pretty woman ! Really, you are quite beautiful ! ” 

Lady Comeston opened her eyes, almost blushed, and 
then laughed softly. Her laughter had a delicious 
note of satisfaction in it. Then she answered him. 

“ Dear Nonie,” she said, using Tora’s pet name. 
“ You mustn’t be ridiculous. ... Now you know we 
settled all that a long time ago . . . didn’t we? ” 

Adrian Thrale smiled faintly to himself. 

The “ long ago ” to which Emma alluded happened 
to have a special place in his memory. A good many 
follies had blossomed and faded since those days when 


94 SUSANNAH 

he and Sir Edmund Corneston’s wife had first met, and 
Adrian Thrale’s time had been as busily engaged with 
“ interludes,” social and otherwise, during the past few 
years, as is the time of most idle, handsome, and popular 
young men of fashion. 

. He could recall just such a night as this, some six 
or seven years ago, when he had been sorely tempted 
by the fascination of this dainty, lovely, soulless little 
creature, whom his father’s oldest and most cherished 
friend had taken for wife, but, somehow or other, he 
had resisted temptation, and Emma Corneston had 
found the handsome “ boy ” whom her husband had 
spoken about so much, strangely and unsatisfactorily 
unresponsive. Though she gave him unlimited en- 
couragement, and though Adrian Thrale was so much in 
her life, and had the reputation of being no respecter 
of the divine right of husbands, he had never progressed 
beyond a kind of agreeable camaraderie with Sir Ed- 
mund Comeston’s very attractive wife. Indeed it would 
have surprised Lady Corneston a good deal no doubt if 
she could have known what place it was that she had 
held in this young man’s esteem. 

Emma was always annoyed when she heard of his 
temporary attachment to one or another of the women 
who belonged to her world, and, indeed, when the first 
rush of her recent hysterical fear had been calmed, the 
situation had not been without its charm for Lady 
Corneston; quite naturally she had prepared herself 
for some sort of a declaration on Adrian’s part, the 
suggested intimacy between them assuredly paved the 


CHAPTER FIVE 95 

way for something of this kind. Therefore, when he 
sat down now, and began to laud her beauty so frankly, 
Emma felt a thrill of satisfied pleasure run through her 
veins. After all, Adrian had wasted too much time 
already! Her satisfaction died a sudden death as he 
went on speaking, however. 

“ Yes, you are quite beautiful,” Adrian repeated 
quietly. “ I expect if you had been born with a crooked 
nose, and a pronounced squint, you might have been 
endowed with a fairly reasonable idea of honour, and 
other respectable things. But, of course, with such 
perfection of feature, and such a lovely skin, one must 
not look too closely into your nature, or, if one does, 
one must not be alarmed at what one finds there.” 
Lady Comeston was extremely and sharply annoyed. 
“ What on earth do you mean ? ” she asked peevishly ; 
then, very quickly, “ If you want to say something 
nasty, say it plainly, please. . . .” 

Adrian laughed. “ All right,” he answered. Then 
he said simply, “ Why can’t you run straight, Emma.? ” 
“ Run straight . . .” Lady Corneston repeated. 
“ What an extraordinary thing to say ! What on 
earth do you mean.? I don’t understand you. . . .” 
Adrian only smiled. 

“ When did you write to Edmund.? ” he asked quietly. 
“ On board the yacht, I suppose.? ” 

“ How do you know I have written to Edmund.? ” 

“ Never mind how I know ; be content I do know that 
you wrote to your husband, although it was absolutely 
settled between us that you would do nothing without 


96 SUSANNAH 

consulting me. ... I know also that he has accepted 
the version of the affair which you proposed to me at 
Trouville as being one of the only means of saving 
the situation. Of course, I cannot be quite certain,” 
Adrian said, “ if you have as yet had any answer to 
your letter, but I could make a pretty shrewd guess that 
you have had some communication from Edmund, either 
by post or wire, during the last few hours, and that 
you did not intend to let me know of this until the 
opportunity came along for informing me in your own 
peculiar way.” 

Lady Comes ton lay back and laughed. 

“Now, you really are clever, Nonie! Go up one!” 
Then she sat forward with a jerk. “ Suppose I say 
you are right 1 That I did write to Edmund, and that 
I have just had an answer from him, . . . the kind of 
answer that I hoped I should get too. . - . Wh 
that.? You ought to be very glad, that is . . . i 
are really my friend.” 

“ It was agreed you were to do nothing, absolutely 
nothing, one way or another, until we had^ discussfed 
the position together,” said Adrian Thrale, in that saih^ 
quiet way. I 

“ I think you are very unreasonable. Yes, and most 
ungrateful too,” Lady Corneston remark^ impa- 
tiently. “ I did what I thought was best for . . . for 
everybody. You know quite well it would be a horrible 
thing for you if old Sarah Thrale could only imagine 
that Edmund had been so stupid about you. Really, 
I acted for the best, Nonie,” said Emma with convic- 



CHAPTER FIVE 97 

tion, “ and you see how wise I was ! Everything is per- 
fectly all right again, and Edmund is awfully sorry 
he made such a mistake. He has written me quite a 
sweet letter, and he entreats me not to open the one 
he sent to Trouville when it reaches me, but to send it 
back to him immediately. You see,” added Lady Cor- 
neston, a little hurriedly, “ I had to pretend I had never 
received that letter, or else everything would have been 
so much more difficult. . . .” 

Adrian moved his chair back so sharply that it made 
a scratching sound on the tessellated pavement. 

“ You have done a most dishonourable thing, 
Emma ! ” he said in a cold, grave voice ; and he got up 
and walked forward to the edge of the terrace. 

Lady Corneston looked frightened for a moment, 
then she got up too, and followed him. 

“ Dear Nonie, don’t speak like that ! ” she said plead- 
ingly, like a child. “ I give you my word, I never sup- 
posed you would be cross ... or make a fuss ... or 
anything! . . . When I told you at Trouville . . .” 

“ You told me nothing at Trouville,” interrupted 
Adrian in the same cold way. ‘‘ You suggested a hun- 
dred different things, each one more preposterous and 
impossible than the last, and because I was sorry for 
you, and . . .” He paused imperceptibly here. To 
speak to Emma of his desire to give back to Edmund 
Corneston his peace of mind, and to restore to himself 
the good faith and affection of his old friend, was of 
course mere waste of breath. “ It never entered into 
my imagination to suppose you could make use of me 


98 SUSANNAH 

in such a way as this,” he said instead in the same 
grave way. 

Emma bit her lip nervously. 

“ I tell you I did what I thought the best thing to 
do,” she repeated rather mulishly. “ After all, you 
know you were just as anxious as I was to make Ed- 
mund see things in a sensible way ; now, weren’t you ? ” 

Adrian winced. Even to fight honestly with such a 
woman as this was to court further annoyance, and 
perhaps further humiliation; yet he had not quite 
finished with her. 

“ You choose to pervert facts. I see now how clever 
you are at this sort of thing,” he answered quietly. 
Then his anger broke from him a little. “ You were per- 
fectly well aware that I should object, and object most 
strongly, to this odious trickery ! ” he said hotly. “ If 
you had not known this, if you had not been afraid of 
me, why should you not have let me know what you 
were doing ” 

Lady Corneston sidled up to him eagerly. 

“ I wanted to tell you ... I really did, Nonie,” she 
said, “ but Ada Harraday wouldn’t let me. . . . She 
said it would be much, much safer to act on my own 
responsibility . . . and then,” Emma went on shyly, 
“ I fancied you must have guessed what I was going 
to do, and that was why you came on here with us when 
we all left the yacht.” 

Adrian swallowed an ugly word. 

“ Juggle with other people as much as you like, 
Emma, and tell all the lies you want to, only for God’s 


CHAPTER FIVE 99 

sake don’t pretend any more with me ! ” he said con- 
temptuously. “ I have had enough of pretence to last 
me my lifetime. . . .” There was another uncomfort- 
able little pause, then he went on, speaking hurriedly: 
“ I was an ass to have given way to you the other day. 
It was my positive duty to have gone at once to Ed- 
mund. . . . As it is, because I was really sorry for you, 
and wanted to do my level best to help you, you see 
where I have landed myself ... In your cursed selfish- 
ness and dishonesty you have put me . . . and . . . 
and others into about the most unpleasant position one 
could find in a day’s march.” 

Emma Corneston felt angry, but less frightened. It 
was when he spoke in that grave, cold way that he 
alarmed her. 

“ Really, it is rather ridiculous of you to make such 
a fuss,” she said fretfully. “ This sort of thing can 
do no harm to anybody, especially to a man; and,” — 
Emma went on gathering confidence, — “ no one need 
really know anything about it. . . . Of course I had 
to tell Ada, or I should have made her cross and per- 
haps spiteful ; but Ada is really discreet, and if you tell 
her you don’t want the thing talked about, I am sure 
she won’t breathe a word of it to any one.” 

Then Emma grew pleading once again. 

“ Dear Nonie, don't be disagreeable,” she pleaded. 
“ It isn’t like you to be cross and rude. . . . After all, 
you know you are really glad things should be made 
right with Edmund and me, aren’t you? Perhaps I 
haven’t been quite honest and all that,” she confessed; 


100 SUSANNAH 

“ but I am sure you must have done heaps and heaps 
of things in your time that wouldn’t bear close inspec- 
tion, haven’t you? So you shouldn’t be too hard on 
me, should you? Besides, I tell you again, I did this 
as much for you as for myself, Nonie ... I swear 
I did!” 

Adrian bit his lip sharply, and almost turned away 
from her; then, controlling himself, he retraced his few 
steps. 

“ Look here, Emma,” he said sharply, “ this business 
is objectionable to me whichever way I look at it, but 
I am not concerned now about myself at all. As you 
have just said, it doesn’t matter a hang to a man to 
have his name associated intimately in this fashion with 
half a dozen women; but it is an altogether different 
matter for a girl, and the person who has to be thought 
of in this moment is your sister . , 

Emma Comeston felt she had touched safe ground 
once again. 

She laughed. 

“ Susannah ! ” she said. ‘‘ Oh, my dear soul, you 
need not bother yourself in the least about Sue! She 
enjoys a bit of fun like this, and of course I shall take 
care of her. . . Then she looked at him with sudden 
suspicion. “ But how did you know about Sue? ” she 
asked. “ Has Edmund written to you ? ” 

“ Not yet,” answered Adrian in that grim sort of 
way that sat upon him so curiously. “No doubt that 
is to come ! It is my aunt, Sarah Thrale, who has lost 
no time in congratulating me . . 


CHAPTER FIVE 101 

Emma’s face changed swiftly. 

“ Sarah Thrale ! ” she said in a blank sort of way. 

“Yes . . . Sarah Thrale, who is coming here to- 
morrow to express her congratulations in person, and 
who is eager to make the acquaintance of Miss Rich- 
land!” 

“ Sarah Thrale,” repeated Lady Corneston feebly. 

This unexpected development of the situation found 
her all unprepared how to act. 

She hated, and she dreaded old Mrs. Thrale. 

For every reason she feared the old woman’s keen 
eyes and sometimes sarcastic tongue, and all her re-born 
complacency vanished in the instant that Adrian gave 
her this unwelcome information. 

“ My aunt has been staying at Blairgarroch, and 
evidently Edmund must have taken your letter to her 
at once ” — ^Adrian feeling almost a kind of savage 
satisfaction come to him as he read the consternation 
written on the extremely pretty face before him. 

“ It is not a bit like Edmund to gossip and repeat 
things!” said Emma tearfully, when words came at 
last. 

It is always the unexpected that happens,” observed 
Adrian. 

Lady Corneston did not seem to hear this remark. 
She went on talking tearfully. 

“ I really only brought Sue here in case Edmund 
should take it into his head to pop down on me, and 
you know he is so . . . so unimaginative, it would be 
quite possible for him to have doubted the — I mean 


102 SUSANNAH 

everything, unless he were to see you together. But 
I never dreamt of your aunt coming. Now there will 
be all sorts of muddles, of course. Sue is so stodgy 
. . . and old-fashioned. If it were any other sort of 
girl it would be diflPerent. But Sue and Sarah Thrale 
together! The prospect is too awful, and yet I can’t 
let Sue go away. Oh, dear I ” said Emma with a sigh 
of real trouble, “ what a bother. Just when every- 
thing was so splendidly arranged, too! I see now I 
ought to have told Edmund to say nothing; that it 
was a secret ... or something of that sort. But who 
would have imagined that he would have chattered like 
this, and to old Sarah Thrale, of all people.? ” 

Adrian smiled. 

“ But, then, it can be all so easily arranged,” he 
said, mocking her. “ Only just a few more lies, and 
everything will be quite all right again! And your 
sister, who is so stodgy, will have thoroughly enjoyed 
the fun! . . . And my aunt will let us throw all the 
dust we want to in her eyes . . . and . . .” 

“Don’t be so hateful, Nonie!” Lady Comeston 
broke in passionately, and then she began to cry. And 
Adrian changed his tone. 

Not that her tears touched him. 

Emma’s personality was obliterated altogether by the 
visioned remembrance of that girl who had stood look- 
ing at him in Tora’s room a few hours before. 

“ You will understand,” he said in a quiet, decisive 
that if I do not move actively in repudiating 
all connection with this business, it is because I have 


CHAPTER FIVE 103 

your sister in my mind; . . . because your sister must 
be considered before everything else. . . . She is an 
absolute stranger to me, as you know; but I have seen 
her, and I don’t believe for one instant that she has 
willingly accepted this position. Under any circum- 
stances, however,” Adrian said sternly, “ the matter 
must rest in her hands. I shall act as she determines, 
and no other way.” He turned and moved towards the 
house, and Lady Corneston followed him. 

“ Nonie, what are you going to do? You must tell 
me,” she asked hurriedly, tearfully. She had only 
faintly understood the gist of his last speech. 

Adrian glanced into the hall; Mrs. Harraday was 
coming toward them. The card-tables were being 
arranged for the bridge players ; she was hunting up 
her particular set. i 

‘‘ I have told you,” he answered impatiently. “ I 
can do nothing. The whole situation is at your sister’s 
discretion. It seems to me more than probable that she 
has not fully realized in what an unpleasant position 
you have placed her, and she may possibly insist, when 
she does realize this, on having the truth told to Sarah 
Thrale, and to Edmund. If this should be the case, 
rest assured I shall make no eflPort to prevent her. In 
this moment it is Miss Richland who has the first claim 
on my consideration and my protection, and I shall 
place myself at her disposal unreservedly. Good- 
night ! ” . . . 

Adrian vaulted over the terrace wall as he spoke, 
and, to avoid meeting his hostess, made his way across 


104 SUSANNAH 

the lawn to the long open windows of the drawing-room, 
through which he vanished just as the other woman 
joined Lady Corneston. 

“Alone, Emma?” queried Mrs. Harraday. “I 
thought I saw Adrian talking to you. By the way, 
my dear, what a hateful temper he was in at dinner! 
I did not dare tell him that I had had a telegram from 
old Sarah Thrale this afternoon, saying she was coming 
here to-morrow, for a night or two. What has hap- 
pened I am simply dying to know.” 

Lady Corneston shrugged her shoulders, and turned 
her tear-stained eyes carefully away. 

“ He has been going on like anything, Ada, abusing 
me, and pretending that I have done something awful! 
And, well, really he was quite rude and horrid ! ” 

Mrs. Harraday smiled her dog-like smile, and opened 
her large, flat, jewelled cigarette-case, which, with a 
lot of jingle- jangles, always hung suspended from her 
waist. 

“No . . . do tell me more, Emma,” she said. “ This 
is all wildly exciting and amusing.” 

“ Is it? ” queried Lady Corneston peevishly. “ Per- 
haps it is to you . . . but it is the sort of amusement 
I can do very well without. . . . Honestly, Ada, I don’t 
know what is going to happen, Adrian was so funny, 
so different! . . . He preached me quite a sermon, I 
do assure you ! Whoever would have supposed that he 
of all men would have turned goody-goody ! ” . . . 

Mrs. Harraday put up her foot, and struck a match 
on the sole of her small evening shoe. 


CHAPTER FIVE 105 

“ My dear Emma,” she said, as she lit her cigarette 
and flung the match away, “ surely a woman with your 
experience ought to know by this time that a man’s 
worst vice is his respectability? And it is generally 
a scamp like Adrian who ends his days with family 
prayers, and eats cold food on Sundays. . . . Why 
don’t you come and play? A good game would put 
all this worry out of your head! Whenever George 
pretends he won’t pay my last bills, I pull down the 
blinds, and play bridge for twelve hours at a stretch, 
and really nothing matters then, not even a writ. 
Well, if you won’t play, said Mrs. Harraday, with a 
little laugh, as Lady Corneston shook her head, “ I will 
send Cyril Danecourt out to talk to you. He is simply 
dying to come — has been fidgeting about indoors, biting 
his lips, and watching you and Adrian like a child out- 
side a sweet-stuff shop . . . but be gentle with him, 
Emma ; he is really hardly old enough to be out of the 
nursery, and requires tender treatment.” . . . 


VI 


“I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to my- 
self I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, 
and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble 
or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of 
truth lay all undiscovered before me.” — B rewster^s Memoirs of 
Newton. 

W HEN he reached his room, Adrian rang his 
bell, and then sat down to the writing-table 
and scribbled a few lines. 

“ My dear Miss Richland ” (he wrote), 

“ I shall esteem it a great favour if you will grant 
me an interview to-morrow morning. I am at your 
disposal at any hour or place you may appoint. 

“ Faithfully yours, 

“ Adrian Thrale.” 

When his man came, Mr. Thrale handed him this 
note. 

“ Give it to Miss Richland’s maid, and ask her to 
see that her mistress has it first thing in the morning.” 

“ Beg pardon, sir,” said the valet, “ but Miss Rich- 
land ain’t got a maid.” 

“ Oh, well ! ” said Adrian impatiently, “ find out 
which housemaid attends her, and give the note to this 

106 


CHAPTER SIX 107 

woman. Impress upon her to be early, Haines, and 
come to me yourself as early as you can.” 

Alone, Adrian tore off his white tie and shirt, and 
flung these with his smart white waistcoat and evening 
clothes into the several corners of the room. 

When he was in his pyjamas, and had lit his favourite 
pipe, he felt a little better, and, as bed was out of the 
question, and deliberate thinking even more so, he 
turned to his gun-case which Haines had brought from 
town, and employed himself with cleaning and admiring 
and polishing ; and, when that task came to an end, he 
remembered that he had promised a cardboard boat to 
Tora, and he sat working at this till midnight was 
comfortably passed; and then he went to bed, but not 
to sleep. 

He had managed to stifle thought to a great extent 
whilst he had been occupied, but in the dusk (for the 
summer night was not dark) he lay staring about him 
with widely open eyes, and he felt afresh a feeling of 
affectionate and regretful sympathy for Edmund 
Corneston steal into his heart; with this there mingled 
that very definite sense of regret for the annoyance and 
perhaps real trouble that this affair would cause 
Susannah. 

When he had heard casually, early in the afternoon, 
that Lady Corneston’s little girl and Miss Richland 
were expected at the Bourne, the fact had conveyed 
nothing more to Adrian than a passing sensation of 
satisfaction, in that Emma should have her sister with 
her in what was perhaps the most important time of 


108 SUSANNAH 

her life. Adrian had never seen this sister; all he 
knew of Susannah was that Tora loved her aunt very, 
very dearly, and that there was always wild excite- 
ment and joy when a visit was planned to “Auntie 
Sue” and the farm. 

Lady Comeston never spoke of her own people, and 
as Mrs. Richland’s ill health and cramped circum- 
stances made it impossible for her to move socially in 
any way, Emma’s mother and sister were known to 
very few of her friends. She herself managed to exist 
very well without them in her life. But when she had 
found herself on the horns of this dilemma. Lady 
Corneston had suddenly remembered Susannah, and had 
drawn comfort in advance from the knowledge of the 
depth and constancy of the love her sister bore her. 

If Adrian Thrale had ever thought about the matter 
at all, which he never did, he would most probably have 
supposed Susannah Richland to have been a much older 
woman than Lady Corneston; no doubt a plain woman, 
and possibly a sensible one. For a woman who vol- 
untarily chose an existence such as he understood from 
Tora’s chatter that Susannah Richland lived, must 
surely have either finished with sentiment and amuse- 
ment, or have rejected it altogether; which naturally 
argued that such a woman would be either plain or 
practical. 

To find “ Auntie Sue ” personified in a fresh, pretty 
girl, whose serious eyes and shy manner produced a 
very sweet impression, was something of a surprise 
therefore. Adrian had scanned Susannah with real 


CHAPTER SIX 109 

interest when she had been in the hall with Mr. Harra- 
day, and even in that short time had realized that she 
was not quite like the other girls he was in the habit 
of meeting. Later on, when she had entered Tora’s 
room, even though she had smiled, Adrian had noticed 
swiftly that she was changed; that something had hap- 
pened to blot the happiness out of her expression, and 
to change her childlike freshness to white cheeks, her 
beautiful, serious eyes to troubled ones ; not even her 
shyness had quite explained why she had drawn back 
from him and had avoided touching his hand. 

He had dismissed this little episode from his mind as 
he had gone away, but it made him horribly uncomfort- 
able now to realize that in bringing her sister into co- 
operation with her scheme, Emma must necessarily have 
tarred him with the same brush as herself. 

It was impossible for Adrian to rest in bed. The at- 
mosphere of the room was suffocating. 

He flung himself across to the window, and sat on 
the ledge, looking out into the mysterious gloom. 

Night was ending, and the dawn had greatly dimin- 
ished the power of the moon. 

He leaned his head back against the side of the open 
window. 

All sorts of things came crowding into his mind in 
this hour; his thoughts were so jumbled together he 
had some difficulty in sorting them out, and all the 
while he was conscious of the existence of something 
that was stinging him, as it were, making him both 
uneasy and uncomfortable. 


110 SUSANNAH 

Little by little he traced this burning, stinging dis- 
comfort to its actual root, and then he knew that he 
was ashamed. 

It was absolutely the first time that Adrian Thrale 
had paused to examine or question the life he had been 
leading so gaily, so light-heartedly for so long. And 
now suddenly there came to him the knowledge that his 
customary existence was not merely selfish and useless, 
but in a degree contemptible. He had been very bitter 
in his condemnation of Emma, but, when everything was 
considered, did he stand so very far apart from her.'^ 
. . . Was his moral conduct on such a much higher 
plane than hers.^^ 

He had voluntarily chosen to mingle his life in with 
this frothy element, content to drift on day after day 
in an inconsequent, idle fashion, having no ambition 
more definite than a desire to avoid troubles and be 
amused. 

He had therefore no one to blame but himself for 
what had just happened. For if Emma Corneston had 
not supposed him to be built in the same fashion as 
herself, regulated by the same petty influences, natu- 
rally she would have hesitated a long time before she 
would have dared to have involved him in this intrigue, 
or have ventured to build so surely on his complicity 
with her deception. 

Her amazement at his anger had been infinitelv 
stronger than her dismay. 

“ I never imagined you would care, or make a fuss ! ” 
she had said with the most natural amazement, and 


CHAPTER SIX 111 

Adrian recognized now that his protest must have really 
sounded unreasonable in her ears. 

“ It’s all damnable ! ” he said to himself nervously, 
irritably, as he arrived at this point, and he began to 
walk to and fro. Later, he ceased promenading, turned 
up the electric light, re-lit his pipe, and, opening one of 
the French novels which Mrs. Harraday had thought- 
fully placed in his room, prepared to read himself into 
a drowsy mood. His favourite literature seemed singu- 
larly unedifying to Adrian this night — even the gra- 
cious and pretty phraseology of the language jarred 
on him; he seemed to catch the echo of Emma’s spe- 
cious explanation in each sentence; so he -closed the 
book, finished his pipe with his brows knitted, and then 
went to bed again. 

When Haines entered his master’s room the next 
morning, he found Mr. Thrale already shaved, bathed, 
and dressed. 

“ Have you brought an answer to that note.?^ ” 
queried Adrian half eagerly; then hurriedly, “No, I 
suppose it is a little too early.” 

“ The young lady’s not in her room, sir,” the valet 
answered; “the housemaid has just told me as Miss 
Richland must have gone out. She put your note on 
the table. Shall I ask her to fetch it, sir? ” 

“ No,” said Adrian, pausing just an instant to re- 
flect. “ You can leave it.” Then he added, “ It is just 
on the cards that I may go away from here to-day, 
Haines. ... I must wait and see Mrs. Thrale, who is 
coming this afternoon ; but after that I may very prob- 


112 SUSANNAH 

ably run up to town, so have everything prepared to 
pack.” 

He paused again, then picked up a panama hat, and, 
going out of the room, made his way slowly and rather 
aimlessly down the stairs. 

When he had just reached the hall, he heard some one 
behind him, and, turning, saw his servant. 

“ Beg pardon, sir,” said the man hurriedly, “ but I’ve 
just seen a young lady going through the lower 
grounds. I thought as you might like to know, 
sir.” 

Adrian nodded his head, frowned a little, and then 
sauntered through the hall to the terrace. It was so 
early that all was still in disorder (though the maids 
were just beginning to bustle about), and in the clear 
morning light the beautiful old hall had a garish look, 
with the chairs pushed hither and thither, and the card- 
tables, uncleared, still bearing the trays of cigar ash and 
a number of empty tumblers. 

Should he follow her.?^ 

The day before he would not have hesitated, but then 
the day before would assuredly not have found him in 
his present mood, neither would he have been shaved and 
dressed and out of his room at seven o’clock in the 
morning. 

Adrian Thrale had both an eagerness to meet Susan- 
nah and a very definite dread of doing so. 

He paused on the terrace. 

The morning was supremely beautiful; nature ap- 
pealed to the man’s eyes with a totally new significance 


CHAPTER SIX 113 

in this moment; everything seemed so harmonious, so 
thoroughly in unison. In the scheme of creation, as it 
was conveyed to him in the picture surrounding him 
now, he felt there was only one extraneous and useless 
subject, and that was himself. Perhaps it was the long 
vigil he had kept — that weary, exasperating, endless 
night that made him so depressed and out of conceit 
with himself. 

The noise of the servants clearing and arranging 
within (one of them was singing under her breath; 
she had a very sweet voice) urged Adrian to 
move on. They would be coming to sweep the terrace 
next. 

He descended the steps slowly, cementing a certain 
purpose in his mind. 

“ As there must be some sort of an explanation be- 
tween us,” he said to himself at length, “ the sooner we 
get it over the better.” 

So he walked in the direction in which Haines had 
told him Susannah had gone, and he felt more and 
more uncomfortable as he passed across the croquet- 
lawn, and penetrated to the mysteries of the kitchen- 
gardens, beyond which lay the paddock, and beyond 
that again, the home farm with all its surround- 
ings. 

When the paddock was reached, the road stretched 
below on the left, and there was a bank which slanted 
a little upwards from the road, and along the bottom 
of which there were palings. 

Here he caught sight of Susannah. She was sitting 


114 SUSANNAH 

on this bank in a rather bunched-up fashion, with her 
elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and her eyes 
fixed steadily on the fields, which veiled mysteriously in 
the heat-mist stretched beyond on the other side of the 
road. 


vn 

“ A dwarf sees farther than the giant, when he has the giant’s 
shoulder to mount on.” — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

N OW that he was so near her Adrian’s courage 
went, and he found it impossible to speak 
to her. 

She had tossed off her hat, and her hair was brushed 
back from her brow just as he had seen her brush it 
roughly with her hand the day before when she had 
been listening so eagerly to Mr. Harraday’s guide-like 
recital of the historical portions of the hall. 

She looked less pale than the night before, but every 
now and then she closed her eyes, as if they were too 
tired to keep open. 

And in truth Susannah was very tired. 

She had slept in that cramped, uncomfortable posi- 
tion, nestled down by Tora’s side, till the nurse had come 
up, a good hour or so later than she ought to have 
done. Then when at last she had made her way to her 
own room, dazed and stupid, and stiff all over, the 
girl, though still weary, was no longer sleepy. She 
felt wearied in heart as well as in body. Nevertheless, 
the charm of the pretty room had stolen upon her un- 
consciously. At all times Susannah loved pretty sur- 
roundings, and she had never before occupied so dainty 
and picturesque a room as this. 

115 


116 SUSANNAH 

Even though she was so tired, she wandered about in 
her dressing-gown, looking at all the appointments. 

There was one little corner in the room which seemed 
to belong to the past absolutely ; a little quaint nook, 
with a narrow slip of a window; and here Mrs. Har- 
raday, with an eye to a good effect, had put a 'priedieu 
and an old crucifix which she had picked up for a few 
lire in Venice. 

Susannah knelt in this little corner a long time, but 
she did not pray. She was too weary to pray, or to even 
think coherently, but kneeling with her head bent for- 
ward on her hands, she seemed to grow more tranquil, 
in a sense more prepared for what lay in the immediate 
future. 

So it was, that when at last she rose to her feet (and 
was just throwing off her dressing-gown preparatory to 
getting into the beautiful little French bed), and her 
eye caught sight of a letter lying on the table, which 
had escaped her notice till now, she took it up almost 
calmly. 

It was in Edmund Corneston’s handwriting, and she 
knew before she opened it that it would be the kindest 
letter he had ever written her; perhaps indeed the 
sweetest letter that Susannah had ever received. 

She held it in her hand a long time, but she did not 
read it, and after a while she put it down; and she 
turned out the electric light, and then she got into 
bed. 

Perhaps, if she could have known through the hours 
that followed, that another spirit was journeying as 


CHAPTER SEVEN 117 

hers was, that some one else was pondering, and puz- 
zling, and trying to see a glimmer of light where all 
was so dark, Susannah might have been comforted. As 
it was, when finally she dropped into sleep, there was an 
ache in her heart that had a companion ache in her 
head. 

To rise very early, to dress, and go out, had always 
been a natural impulse with Susannah, a kind of for- 
bidden joy as it were, unrealized until she had come to 
the farm; for the circumscribed life she had lived in 
town had naturally prohibited this desire for wandering 
at unconventional hours. 

When she stole softly down the stairs she found the 
doors barred of course, and not without some difficulty 
and some trepidation she managed to unbolt the one 
that led from the hall. 

She felt a little guilty in allowing herself so much 
freedom in a strange house, but the moment she was 
out alone with the morning, it was as though some one 
had placed a cool, comforting hand upon her troubled 
heart. 

She paused a little while, and then went and sat on 
.the lawn under the trees, but this was too near the house, 
so, feeling convinced that beyond this cultivated garden 
there would be some open space where she could sit and 
think, she rose and pushed her way through the trees. 
And when she came to the paddock, she sat down, and 
then she read the letter from Sir Edmund* 

Isn’t life funny.?” Susannah queried to herself; 
it is just nothing but hill-climbing. How many times 


118 SUSANNAH 

I have said to myself, ‘ Now, if only I can get to the 
top, how beautiful everything will be. The world will 
spread before me; it will all be open and fresh, and 
perhaps I shall see the sea in the distance.’ And so I 
have struggled up and up, and then when I have got to 
the top, I have found nothing but a barren little ledge, 
and then . . . another hill! And yet I shall go on 
climbing just the same, no matter how big the hills are 
or how many.” She sighed again, and then mused on. 
“I never change! Now I am just longing to pass 
through that soft, silky cloud of mist that is rolling 
over the grass because I fancy I shall find something 
wonderful behind it. And, of course, if I wait here 
long enough I shall see that mist melt away, and the 
only thing that will be behind it will be perhaps a shed 
for the cattle, and a lot of fields and hedges ... I 
wonder if Hernstone lies in that direction.” Susannah 
pondered on a moment later : “ This looks like the road 
that we came along yesterday. ... Yes! I remember 
now ; when we turned that sharp corner nurse screamed 
quite wildly, and Tora and I tried so hard not to laugh.” 
A faint smile broke the soberness of her lips, and then 
she sighed again. 

“ Well, I had a little spell of real happiness yester- 
day ; so, after all, I don’t think I ought to grumble.” 

Her expression changed suddenly. 

She took her hands from her chin and pressed them 
to her eyes for a moment, then looked up and locked 
her hands together round her knees. 

“ I don’t think I should mind so much if it were not 


CHAPTER SEVEN 119 

for Edmund, if only he had not written this letter,” 
she said to herself. “ This is what people call the irony 
of life, I suppose. . . . How often I have dreamed 
that some day Emma might want me; some day we 
might be together; that I might share her life — do 
something for her just to let her know how much I have 
always loved her! How often I have felt I should like 
to be friends with Edmund 1 And now these things have 
come; and . . .” She broke off in her thoughts ab- 
ruptly. 

There was the sound of a horse trotting swiftly on 
the road, advancing towards where she sat, and she 
turned her head to look at what was coming. 

Then Adrian, who was watching her so closely, no- 
ticed that a wave of pretty colour spread over her pale 
cheeks, and that she smiled as if with pleasure. The 
next moment she spoke. 

“ Good-morning,” she called in her clear voice ; and 
as the rider drew rein, evidently amazed by her saluta- 
tion* and by the fact that she was so near, she laughed 
almost lightly. 

Not a little curious, Adrian Thrale emerged from his 
hiding-place for an instant, and craned his neck to see 
who was in the road. 

“ Why, it’s Dick Calvert 1 ” he said to himself ; “ and 
evidently an old friend.” 

Mr. Calvert sprang from the saddle with the bridle 
linked in his arm ; he came up close to the palings. 

“ Why, what are you doing here ^ ” he asked. “ Run- 
ning away from my bullocks ” 


120 SUSANNAH 

He slipped his hand from his riding-glove, and held 
it out to her as he spoke. 

Susannah could just reach to put her hand into his 
comfortably. It was not the first time that she had 
noticed that Richard Calvert’s hand was a particularly 
nice one — long, and well shaped, and, despite the fact 
that he could turn it to almost any use, always in good 
condition. 

“ I am staying here,” she said, a little tremulously. 
“ Mr. Calvert, it is very nice to see you.” 

Indeed, Susannah was conscious of quite a rush of 
pleasure at sight of his familiar figure. 

He belonged to yesterday — to the days which, though 
joy had escaped them, would possess for her now a 
grace which she felt might never come into her life 
again. Though she had learned to laugh at him and his 
peculiar little economies (which were a favourite theme 
for comment and grumbling among the people who 
served him), she had quickly known that, if a hard man, 
he was also a just one, and one who could be relied upon 
absolutely. His quiet consideration for her mother had 
won Susannah’s heart in the beginning; to-day, some- 
how, he took a new place in her regard: she felt he was 
her friend, and she was sorely in need of a friend. 

Richard Calvert looked at her a little keenly. If he 
was touched by her quick and honest expression of 
pleasure at sight of him, he did not show this. 

“ You are staying at the Bourne.? ” he said with an 
accent of surprise. “ Came over yesterday, I suppose.? 
Well, it is a nice old house, isn’t it? ” 


CHAPTER SEVEN 121 

“ It is a beautiful house, a most beautiful house,” 
said Susannah ; but there was no real enthusiasm in her 
voice, and she seemed to be thinking of something else 
as she spoke. “ Do you know it well? ” she asked hur- 
riedly, as she drew back her hand. 

Richard Calvert nodded his head with a smile that 
came so rarely. 

“ Fairly well. It was my old home. I was born in 
it,” he said then. And this roused her; the shadow 
went from her face, and she opened her eyes and stared 
at him. 

“You were born in it?” she repeated. “What a 
funny thing!” 

“ Not so very funny, considering that it was my 
father’s house, and now belongs to me. Unfortu- 
nately,” said Richard Calvert in his blunt way, “ I 
cannot afford to keep it up, so I let it, and I am lucky 
to have found an extraordinarily good tenant. Harra- 
day is as keen about the old place as I should be myself. 
He is a good sort all round. I have ridden over here 
this morning on purpose to have a chat with him; he 
wants me to make some improvements in the stables. I 
thought I would come early. You know I do get up 
early as a rule.” His eyes twinkled for an instant. 
“ It is market day at Tetherton,” he said, “ and I must 
be there in good time. I shall not stay very long.” 

“ The Bourne belongs to you? ” repeated Susannah; 
then, with something of her old childlike straightfor- 
wardness, “ Really and truly belongs to you? Then 
why didn’t you tell me that before? ” 


122 SUSANNAH 

He shrugged his shoulders, and patted the smooth 
neck of his horse as it stopped to nibble the parched 
grass by the roadside. 

“ I really never thought about it,” he answered 
simply. “ Does it seem to you so very remarkable 
that I should be the owner of this old house. Miss 
Richland? ” 

Susannah nodded her head. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ in a way ; because,” she added 
bluntly, “ you are so absolutely unromantic, and the 
Bourne is made for romance! ” 

Richard Calvert laughed at this. 

“ Well, I dare say you are right,” he said good- 
humouredly. “ Anyhow, now that I know that you are 
staying here, I think I will make an exception to my 
general rule, and remain to breakfast.” 

“ Oh, do 1 ” said Susannah ; she spoke eagerly, with 
an eagerness that was most sincere. “ Do stay, 
Mr. Calvert! and then ... I ... I shan’t feel so 
lonely.” 

He looked at her thoughtfully. She had always been 
interesting, but he was seeing her in a new light to-day. 

“ Is it your first visit to the Harradays? ” 

She nodded her head, and then she explained. 

“ My sister. Lady Corneston, is staying here . . . 
that is why I am here too. Tora and I came over yes- 
terday afternoon in the motor-car. It all seemed such 
fun, Mr. Calvert; I was simply dying to go in a motor- 
car, and dying to stay in a beautiful old house like this, 
and now ” — she gave a little shrug of her shoulders — I 


CHAPTER SEVEN 123 

want to go home again! That is human nature all 
over, isn’t it? ” 

“ Well, why can’t you go home? ” asked Richard Cal- 
vert, looking at her from under the brim of that old 
sun-bumed hat, with a very kind expression in his eyes. 
“ I am sure you must be very much missed at Hem- 
stone.” 

Susannah’s lips trembled slightly. 

“ I wish I could think so,” she said, unconscious that 
she had made a confession. Then she got up. “ I sup- 
pose it is ever so late, Mr. Calvert? I haven’t the least 
idea of the time.” 

He took out his big, old-fashioned watch, and showed 
her the face of it. 

“ Just about a quarter to eight,” he said ; then he 
added, ‘‘ If you really want to go back to Hernstone 
you have only to tell me, and I will arrange to drive you 
over directly after breakfast. You see, I regard you 
as part of my farm property, so I must look after 
you.” 

Susannah smiled back at him, and thanked him 
gratefully. 

‘‘ You are awfully kind,” she said, “ and I should 
love to go, but you must not miss Tetherton market, 
must you? And, then, I must wait, because my sister 
wants me. I don’t quite know when I shall be able to 
go home. But you will come to breakfast, won’t you? ” 
she finished eagerly, like a child. 

“ I will, certainly, if I am invited,” said Calvert 
with a smile. “ Perhaps just because I should like to 


124 SUSANNAH 

breakfast here this morning, Harraday may forget to 
give me an invitation.” 

He pulled up his horse’s head, and backed the animal 
into the road. 

Susannah was really loath to let him go. 

It was quite extraordinary how much comfort he 
seemed to give her. She felt just as a child must feel 
when it is threatened with something alarming, and 
finds a protecting hand very close. And the funny part 
of this was, that up to now he had always seemed so un- 
sympathetic to her. 

“ Considering everything, you are very merciful to 
me,” she said with a little laugh, as he swung himself up 
into the saddle again. “ Tora was in a great state of 
alarm yesterday morning. She had made up her mind 
that you were going to put me into prison ! Just fancy, 
you being there all the time, and watching me, and I 
thought I was so clever getting up with the dawn on 
purpose to rob you! . . . Next time I try to be a thief, 
I shall be ever so much more careful 1 ” 

Her words came to an abrupt ending, for some one 
had moved across the grass just behind her, and a 
pleasant voice, which she recognized only too quickly, 
had hailed the man on the horse’s back on the road. 

“Hullo, Dick! How are you, old fellow.?” Then 
Adrian had doffed his hat. “ Good-morning, Miss 
Richland. I thought I was the only early worm, but I 
see you are before me.” 

He did not offer his hand, for which Susannah was 
vaguely grateful, but stood with his hat pushed forward 


CHAPTER SEVEN 125 

over his eyes, and his hands on his hips, as he com- 
menced to talk to Richard Calvert in a breezy fashion. 
The other man seemed pleased to see him. 

Susannah moved quickly away from him, and turned 
hurriedly back towards the house. 

The discomfort, and the uncertainty, and the ner- 
vousness had come back with a rush. 

The easy bearing and matter-of-fact manner of 
this very good-looking young man, seemed to her to 
denote an almost wicked amount of indifference, when 
contrasted with Emma’s display of tragic emotion the 
day before. 

He did not seem in the least touched or dismayed 
by all that had happened. Susannah felt hot with 
indignation against him, for, after all, in her eyes 
Adrian Thrale was the cause of all the trouble. 

She no longer endowed her sister with the virtue of 
simple honesty and truth, but she had yet to be wholly 
convinced that Emma was really unworthy, or did wrong 
premeditatedly. 

To Susannah’s ears there had been something pa- 
thetic and childlike in Emma’s artless confession of 
her beauty, and of the admiration she aroused. A 
great deal could be pardoned to one so richly endowed, 
and so young in spirit, Susannah felt, and quite natu- 
rally, during the night hours, she had found herself put- 
ting forward excuses for her sister. They were so dif- 
ferent, she and Emma. There had never been any need 
for Emma to cultivate that sense of responsibility which 
played so large a part in her own life; on the 


126 SUSANNAH 

contrary, whereas Susannah passed her days isolated 
as it were from close sympathies and tender care, Emma 
had always been petted and protected — she had never 
had to think for herself. 

More than once in those long hours of sleepless- 
ness and busy thought, Susannah had said to her- 
self : 

“ It would be too horrible if I had done anything like 
this ! But Emma is different somehow. She is not like 
me ; she is really a child ; she will never be anything but 
a child. Edmund should have remembered this. One 
cannot expect wisdom from a child! ” 

And more than once, too, a great rush of loving 
feeling had thrilled and lifted her heart. 

“ It is so little to do, after all, when I love her so 
much,” she said to herself in such moments ; “ and she 
has such need of me. Poor Emma! At least she 
turned to me; she counted on my love. ... I must 
never forget that ! ” 

But later, out in the fresh clear morning, when she 
had opened and read her brother-in-law’s letter, the 
sophistry of this pleading forced itself upon her. Em- 
ma’s childlike propensities seemed to fade slowly away: 
she only saw the truth, and the truth was not good to 
look upon. 

And now as she walked swiftly away from Adrian 
Thrale, so fresh and smart in his white linen clothes, so 
handsome, such a contrast to the middle-aged man sit- 
ting on horseback below him, her own share in the 
matter came to her with all its most objectionable fea- 


CHAPTER SEVEN , 127 

tures made painfully clear; all her repugnance to the 
deception oppressed her again. 

The sound of Adrian’s voice chatting so familiarly 
followed her as she hurried away. 

She felt assured he would come after her, that he 
would speak. Why, otherwise, would he have been 
there at this early hour.? 

And she dreaded his coming; she feared to hear him 
speak. 

“ What shall I do ? ” she asked herself a little hope- 
lessly. “ I feel horribly frightened! ” 

Once the idea came to her to run fleetly away from 
him, but she quickly rejected this. There would be 
something ludicrous and undignified in running away; 
so almost involuntarily she paused, and then, as she 
heard his footstep approaching, she sat down on a 
garden seat that happened to be close at hand, and she 
waited, with a wildly beating heart, and limbs that 
trembled, for what was to come. 

Adrian was advancing slowly. 

He had made no effort to prevent Susannah going, 
and indeed he had remained chatting a few moments 
with his kinsman on purpose to let her go freely, and 
when he parted with Calvert he abandoned his defi- 
nite intention to approach her, at any rate for the 
moment. 

There had been a very significant note to Adrian’s 
ears in the way she had pleaded so eagerly with Richard 
Calvert to remain to breakfast. 

He had detected nothing “ stodgy ” about her, 


128 SUSANNAH 

though she was certainly a trifle out of the fashion of 
modern girls, and seemed to be devoid of even a scintil- 
lation of coquetry. In the way she had coloured at 
sight of him, and then had hastened to leave him, he 
read nothing but a very determined desire to avoid 
him. 

It was just because she was so simple, and saw things 
from a serious point of view, that Adrian troubled 
about her. 

“ It is a nice hash all round,” he mused impatiently, 
as he sauntered back towards the gardens. “ I’m 
hanged if I know exactly what to do for the best ! It 
would only be serving Emma as she deserved if I did 
a bolt, but it would be so mean to leave this child in 
the lurch ! What if I go up to town, and make a clean 
breast of it to Aunt Sarah . . . She might pull a 
long face, and ten chances to one if she would believe 
in my profession of innocence, she knows me too well,” 
confessed Adrian with a grin ; ‘‘ but it might be worth 
trying ! I should have to give Emma away,” he added, 
with half a frown, “ but I don’t fancy I should startle 
the old lady very much. She took dear little Emma’s 
measure a long time ago, and as she is so devoted to 
Corneston she would not be likely to tell tales. It is 
not half a bad idea. ... I must think it out. . . . 
I could just get to town in time to stop Aunt Sarah 
coming here. . . . By Jove, I’ve two minds to do this 
right away! ” 

And then Adrian drew back suddenly, and whistled to 
himself under his breath, for he had turned a corner, 


CHAPTER SEVEN 129 

and had come upon the garden-seat with Susannah sit- 
ting on it rather stiffly, and evidently waiting for 
him. 

She wore no hat ; her skirt was the same old pique of 
the day before, but instead of the white bodice, she had 
put on a blouse of soft pink linen, very dainty and 
fresh-looking. 

Adrian noticed that her hair was not so dark as 
Emma’s, but that it was more abundant. It was 
brushed simply back from her low, broad brow, and was 
coiled loosely about her head. 

There was a moment of constrained silence, and 
Adrian in that silence felt as he had never felt since he 
had been a shy and pretty schoolboy; then as he saw 
that the little hand (so delicate in form, though so 
sunburnt) lying on the arm of the seat was trembling, 
he smiled faintly, a little smile of protection and sym- 
pathy, and moved forward. 

“ Poor little soul ! ” he said to himself almost with 
a pang. “ She is absolutely terrified of me. I should 
like to wring Emma’s neck.” 

He had taken off his hat, and was fanning himself 
with it leisurely. 

“ I am so sorry I drove you away just now. Miss 
Richland,” he said in his pleasantest way, “ and I am 
sure you did go to avoid speaking to me, did you 
not? ” 

Susannah coloured painfully, and then mastered her 
nervousness courageously. 

“ I would certainly rather not meet you, or — or speak 


130 SUSANNAH 

to you,” she said very coldly and stiffly, avoiding his 
eyes; ‘‘ but there seems to be no escape from this.” 

‘‘ Oh, that is where you are wrong ! ” said Adrian 
rather sharply, nettled by her tone. 

Now that he knew so much about Emma’s skill in 
extricating herself from difficulties at the expense of 
others, he felt pretty surely that he must figure in some 
sort of a humiliating fashion in Susannah’s eyes. This, 
combined with everything else, was not calculated to 
make him very amiable. 

“ That is just where you are wrong,” he repeated. 
“ It is necessary, I grant, that you must suffer the an- 
noyance of one interview with me, otherwise it would 
be impossible for me to attempt to offer you my as- 
sistance in disassociating yourself from your sister’s 
affairs. . . . But I shall try and be as brief as possible, 
and after that, I promise you,” Adrian said curtly, 
“ that you need never speak to me again, unless you 
wish to do so. . . .” 

Susannah’s hot colour had faded, his impatience and 
suggested bad temper rather helped her. 

“ If you have anything to say that is really neces- 
sary, I will, of course, listen,” she said in the same cold 
tones. 

Adrian thanked her gravely, but his eyes gleamed. 

“ I have this to say,” he went on, “ I quite appreciate 
your objection to ... to what has been arranged 
by your sister. There are few people, I fancy, who 
would not give you sympathy on that score, and I ap- 
proach you simply and solely for the purpose of telling 


CHAPTER SEVEN 131 

you that I am absolutely at your service in bringing 
this absurd business to an end. ... You see,” Adrian 
said as he sat down on the end of the bench ; he did not 
look at her as he spoke, “ as unfortunately others have 
been acquainted with this farce, and in a way that 
makes them naturally regard it as a fact, I can make no 
move of any sort without first broaching the matter to 
you, and you will, of course, wish to do something in 
the matter, with as little delay as possible.” 

Susannah bit her lip, and sat a little more stiffly. 

“ I do not desire that you should order my move- 
ments in any way,” she said. 

“ My dear child,” answered Adrian with some heat, 
“ I am not attempting to order you ! . . . I only wish 
to help you ... I am sure you cannot understand 
what . . .” 

Susannah got up. 

“ I ... I don’t think we serve any purpose by 
speaking together,” she said in a low voice ; “ it is not 
only that . . . you are a stranger to me . . . but,” 
she paused hesitatingly, nervously, “ I shall obey my 
sister, and be guided by my sister entirely,” she said 
then, and then she turned on him a little hotly, “ it 
is . . . very wrong of you to try and work against 
Emma . . . when all . . . all this trouble is . . . 
your fault. ... If you are really sorry . . . about 
. . . about everything, and really want to help 
anybody, surely you ought to be anxious to help my 
sister, instead of going against her.” 

Adrian got quite cross. 


132 SUSANNAH 

“ Lady Corneston can take full care of herself, I am 
not in the least concerned about her,” he said coldly. 
“ It is you whom I wish to help. ...” 

“ And I refuse your help absolutely, please let that 
be understood between us,” said Susannah, strung up 
to a display of genuine temper, by what she took to 
be his callous disloyalty to a woman who was involved 
in so much trouble, and through his fault entirely. 

Holding her head proudly, she walked quickly away 
down the path, leaving Thrale to sit and stare after her 
rather blankly. 

“ Well, I’m d — d ! ” he said to himself, when he had re- 
covered a little. “ This is a funny business and no 
mistake ! ” 

He sat banging his hat rather viciously against his 
knee, and then he laughed. 

“ Well, that settles it! Now things may go just as 
they like 1 I shan’t stir a finger to help that little spit- 
fire, and I shan’t worry myself any more! . . . Let 
Sarah Thrale come . . . and Edmund Corneston too. 
Let all the world come! It will be nothing to me! I 
shall get as much fun out of this as I can, and, before I 
have done with her, I think I shall make Emma Cornes- 
ton feel sorry that she ever played the fool with me ! ” 

He sat nursing his injured feelings for some time, till 
a faint, booming sound warned him that breakfast 
would be served immediately ; then he rose, and began to 
retrace his steps, still considerably ruffled by this very 
unexpected repudiation of his most honest, and in a 
sense chivalrous, purpose. 


CHAPTER SEVEN 133 

Musing vaguely, and yet vexedly as he went, his eye 
caught sight of something white on the path ahead 
of him. 

As he approached he saw it was a letter, and as he 
stooped and picked it up, he read the name, and recog- 
nized Sir Edmund Corneston’s small, legal hand- 
writing. 

He could guess quite easily what this letter contained. 
As it was addressed to Susannah at the Bourne, it was 
evident that Emma had not lied when she had told him 
the night before that her husband had accepted the 
pretended news she had sent him as the actual truth. 

Adrian Thrale had not quite realized the full mean- 
ing of the situation till this moment. He stood look- 
ing at the letter with a feeling of sharp regret. His 
ill-temper, his bitter humour, went from him suddenly; 
he was only sorry, deeply and truly sorry, for the man 
whom he had known all his life, and for the girl who 
was being made such a plaything of by her sister. 

And as he stood there some one came hurrying back 
along the path, some one in a white pique skirt and a 
pink blouse. 

Susannah’s head was bent ; she was searching eagerly 
on all sides for her letter. 

She bit her lip and flushed as she looked up and 
saw Adrian standing motionless in the path with that 
letter in his hand. 

“ You lost this,” he said gravely. “ I have just 
picked it up.” Then he paused, and then he added, 
stung into sudden sarcasm by the expression on her 


184 SUSANNAH 

face, “I have not read it”; and then he turned ab- 
ruptly and left her. 

Susannah looked after him a little doubtfully. The 
quick gleam in his eyes and the curl of his lip made her 
uncomfortable. As a rule, she never rushed to hasty 
conclusions in her judgment of people, and now she 
felt uneasily that she had already condemned this man 
purely through prejudice, and because unconsciously 
she had desired to find in his wrong-doing an excuse for 
her sister’s fault. 

“ He need not have said that,” she said to herself 
with a frown. ‘‘ It never entered into my mind to sup- 
pose he would have read the letter.” 

She found Mr. Harraday and Richard Calvert strol- 
ling across the croquet-lawn as she emerged from the 
trees, and Tora’s dainty little figure was carefully de- 
scending the final step of the terrace. 

The child ran like the wind to greet Susannah. 

“ I’m going to have breakfast with you, Auntie Sue, 
aren’t I.?” she clamoured. “Nurse says she doesn’t » 
care, if you will look after me. ... You will look after 
me, won’t you.? ... I promise you,” said Tora sol- 
emnly, “ that I won’t sticky anything with my hands. 

. . . Oh ! Auntie Sue, do say I may come ! ” 

Susannah picked up the little figure which clung 
elastically about her, and her heart lightened a little as 
she kissed Tora. It was such a solace to pillow her 
cheek against Tora’s soft fresh one and to be kissed 
so rapturously. 

Richard Calvert paused. There was a soft look in his 


CHAPTER SEVEN 135 

eyes as he saw the girl approach, walking a little 
slowly under her pretty, loving burden. 

‘‘Can’t I relieve you.'^ Will she come to me.?” he 
said. But at that moment Adrian, who had been ad- 
vancing softly across the lawn, came up, and from be- 
hind calmly detached Tora’s arms from Susannah’s 
neck, and hoisted the little creature on his shoulder. 

“ Now then. Miss Tora ! . . . I am going to pay 
you out for what you did last night! . . . Oh, it’s 
no use hoping that Auntie Sue will save you. ... I 
have got you at last, and I am not going to give 
you up.” 

The child’s happy laughter, her screams of pretended 
fright, the element of nonsense and freedom that her 
small presence introduced, came opportunely. As Su- 
sannah walked back to the house and into the break- 
fast-room with Richard Calvert beside her, and as she 
occupied herself in calming Tora’s excitement, and 
smoothing the ruffled curls and much-rumpled frock, 
she drifted back to her customary ease of manner, and 
afterwards she sat chatting brightly and naturally to 
her host, as if the young man, who looked so delight- 
fully cool and attractive in his linen clothes, seated at 
the opposite side of the table, not only had no sort of 
interest for her, but was not even in existence! 


VIII 

I am myself indifferent honest.” 


Hamlet, act iii, sc. 1. 


)Y CORNESTON always breakfasted in her 
room, and generally slept late. 



^ On this particular morning she awakened a lit- 
tle earlier than usual, and lay ruminating awhile before 
ringing for her maid. 


She sighed a good many iimes. 


Emma hated worry of any kind, and she had a fairly 
hard day before her. 

“ Positively and absolutely,” she said to herself, “ I 
dare not let Sue and that old cat meet. If Sue were 
anything but what she is — well ! then there wouldn’t be 
any need to bother; but just imagine old Thrale and 
that dear simpleton together! No! it will never do! I 
must let Susannah go back to the farm at once as Ada 
suggested last night. Perhaps that will satisfy our 
friend the moralist!” Then Lady Corneston frowned 
sharply as a new thought came to her. . . . “ I bet 
anything,” she said to herself, “ that Sarah Thrale will 
have written to mother ! ” She picked up her husband’s 
last letter and scanned it carefully, then she flicked it 
away. “Yes, . . . I am convinced she will have writ- 
ten. ... Silly old thing! she seems to be out of her 


136 


CHAPTER EIGHT 137 

mind simply because she imagines Adrian is going to 
be married. ... I am sure I wish any woman joy of 
him and his odious temper! It would not be a bad 
idea,” Emma decided a moment or two later, “ if I were 
just to drop a line to mother and tell her that if she by 
chance should hear from Sarah Thrale, she is to take 
no notice of the letter, as it is only a little joke. . . . 
Thank God 1 mother can see a joke, and enjoy it without 
flinging sermons at one’s head ! ” 

When her maid came. Lady Corneston scribbled a 
few lines to her mother, and then despatched the maid to 
see how she could get this note conveyed over to Hem- 
stone at once. Then she enjoyed her breakfast and her 
correspondence. 

There was another letter from her husband, a most 
tenderly affectionate letter, making arrangements for 
their meeting in town. Sir Edmund spoke of having al- 
ready written to Susannah at Hernstone, desiring that 
Tora should be sent to meet him on Thursday, and he 
recommended that this plan should be adhered to. 

But Lady Corneston thought differently. 

I don’t want to have nurse on the scene,” she said 
to herself. “ I shall give her a holiday now, and then, 
when she is away, I shall get rid of her altogether, and I 
shall let Tora go back with Susannah to Hernstone. 
Sue will be only too glad to have the child without 
nurse, and Tora is never so happy as when she is with 
Sue. And then I must tell Edmund that I had prom- 
ised this to Sue, and it would be such a disappointment 
to her if we had taken Tora away. Now, unless Nonie 


138 SUSANNAH 

works against me, I shall have patched up everything 
splendidly. Of course I must go to town on Thursday,” 
Emma mused on ; “ and now I shall have to go with Ed- 
mund to the cottage for the partridge-shooting. It will 
be an awful bore, but I shall have to do it this year. I 
wonder whether I might invite young Danecourt to 
come too.'* He is really rather amusing, though he is 
so young.” When her maid came up again, and re- 
ported that she had despatched some one from the 
stables on a bicycle to Hernstone, Lady Corneston sent 
her to find Susannah. 

“ If she is having breakfast downstairs, never mind 
for the moment; but I expect she will be in her room,” 
she said. “ Tell her I want to speak to her very par- 
ticularly. ... I shall get Sue and Tora off as soon as 
I can,” was Lady Corneston’s decision made to her- 
self. 

As the maid was passing out, Mrs. Harraday tapped 
at the door and walked in. 

She had on a muslin kimona wound about her very 
slim body; her frizzy hair was screwed into a knob on 
the top of her head ; and the inevitable cigarette was in 
her mouth. In her hand she had an open telegram. 

She nodded “ good-morning,” and then said — ‘‘ Read 
that.” 

Emma took the telegram and read it. 

As I fear heat will be very great, have decided to 
travel quite early. Shall arrive, therefore, y train 
reaching Tetherton at ten-twelve. — Sarah Thrale.” 


CHAPTER EIGHT 139 

Lady Corneston crushed the flimsy paper in her 
hand, and tossed it from her. 

“ Isn’t she a tiresome old toad.? ” she exclaimed in a 
tone of exasperation. 

Mrs. Harraday laughed and moved about, not an 
unpicturesque figure in her Eastern garb, with her 
thin hands poised on her hips. 

“ This settles the question of packing off Susannah 
this morning, at any rate,” she said, speaking with her 
cigarette between her teeth. 

Lady Corneston looked at the clock; it was about 
twenty minutes to ten ; then she lay back on her pillows, 
the prettiest creature imaginable in her gossamer 
night-gear. 

Mrs. Harraday’s amused expression annoyed her. 

“ It is all very well for you to laugh, Ada; but you 
don’t know what Sue is. She is capable of giving away 
the whole thing to Sarah Thrale. . . . Oh, not will- 
ingly, but unconsciously. She is so honest, so horribly 
honest ! And then you know, too, how catty old Thrale 
always is with me,” pursued Emma. After a pause of 
a moment, “ I am not by any means sure, Ada, that it 
wasn’t she who wrote to Edmund, and made all the 
mischief.” 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Harraday decisively, “ I am quite 
sure on that point. Like your sister, the old woman is 
honest, horribly honest ; and though I am not overfond 
of her, I . know she couldn’t do a mean thing if she 
tried. by don’t you send for Susannah, and coach 
her a little? ... I believe you are exaggerating 


140 SUSANNAH 

things, Emma. ... Just now George ran up to speak 
to me for a moment, and when I asked him who was at 
breakfast, he said that Miss Richland and Adrian 
Thrale were the only house guests who had shown up, 
but that Richard Calvert was breakfasting, and that 
Tora was having a splendid time. That looks hopeful, 
doesn’t it? I only wish I had gone down,” said Mrs. 
Harraday with real regret, as she sauntered to the 
door; “it would have been such fun watching Adrian; 
for you may take it from me, Emma, that he will be 
the uncomfortable one. Girls — the best of them — have 
all got a spice of the devil in them, and acting is part 
of our nature, you know. Now I must go and dress. 
... I shall only just have time to rush into something, 
and be down to meet the carriage when it comes back 
from the station. Cheer up, Emma,” was Mrs. Harra- 
day’s parting remark, as she was passing out ; “ you 
have squared the most important person, and nothing 
else really matters. . . . Unless you have been foolish 
enough to correspond with Aldershot, or have taken too 
many people into your confidence.” 

Left alone. Lady Comeston waited impatiently for 
Susannah to come ; but, instead of her sister, her maid 
returned after some time, and reported that she could 
not find Miss Richland anywhere. She added that the 
butler had told her that Miss Richland and little Miss 
Corneston had gone out with one of the gentlemen after 
breakfast, but he could not say in which direction they 
had gone, and Melanie declared she had been unable to 
see any sign of them. 


CHAPTER EIGHT 141 

“ And not to come near me ! ” cried Emma in amazed 
anger. “ But she ought to have come. She must know 
I have heaps to say to her. What a maddening crea- 
ture she is ! ” 

The maid shrugged her shoulders. It was rather 
agreeable to hear some one else blamed for doing 
nothing wrong. 

‘‘ I shall dress at once,” said Lady Corneston, quite 
hot with indignation. “ I must speak to Sue before 
Sarah Thrale comes. . . . I feel all in the dark as to 
what is going to happen. 

Susannah and Tora were having a game of croquet 
all to themselves, as Lady Comeston’s pretty girlish- 
looking figure was seen emerging from the hall on to 
the terrace. 

Susannah was laughing. 

Almost resentfully her sister noticed this fact as she 
advanced holding a large white-and-green lined um- 
brella carefully over her head. Laughing ! When she, 
Emma, was simply worried to death ! It was heartless ; 
it was inconceivable! 

In fact Susannah was having a brief spell of wel- 
come tranquillity after so many hours of unrest. 

Breakfast, for which she had so nervously prepared 
herself, had been a most pleasant meal. That curious 
sense of comfort and of protection which Calvert’s pres- 
ence had brought her out in the open, had increased. 
Though she had never sat at a meal with him before, 
it seemed almost familiar and natural to do so now. 

As for Mr. Harraday, he had completely lost his 


142 SUSANNAH 

heart to Susannah, and proposed all sorts of excur- 
sions, and pleasant little jaunts, and Tora’s chatter 
made the atmosphere breezy. Once when they had all 
been laughing heartily at some remark the child had 
made, Susannah’s eyes had met Adrian’s in a chance 
fashion, and they had interchanged a glance of amuse- 
ment before they had realized what they were doing. 

Then after breakfast Susannah and Tora had gone 
with Mr. Calvert to the stables, from whence he started 
to ride to the market, and when they had watched him 
mount and d^appear, they went back to the gardens, 
and Tora had commanded a game of croquet, and a 
game of croquet it was, of course. 

Susannah was not aware of her sister’s presence till 
Lady Corneston was quite close, and she flushed hotly as 
the other woman spoke. 

“ Why didn’t you come to my room. Sue ? ” queried 
Emma crossly. ‘‘How very odd you are! You must 
have known I should want to speak to you. You have 
made me tear through my dressing, and I have such a 
horrible headache, too 1 ” 

“ I am sorry,” said Susannah. She was watching 
Tora, who was coiling herself through some bushes a 
good distance off, attempting to find a lost ball. “ I did 
not go to you, Emma, because I know you hate being 
disturbed in the morning.” Susannah paused, then she 
said nervously, “ Is there something new you want to 
say.? ” 

Lady Corneston sat down. 

“I meant to have sent you back to the farm this 


CHAPTER EIGHT 143 

morning,” she said, still crossly. “ And now, really, 
I don’t know what to do ! ” 

Susannah coloured again, and her eyes looked sud- 
denly very bright. 

“ It is not very pleasant to be tossed about as a kind 
of shuttlecock, Emma.” 

“ Oh, don’t be disagreeable, my nerves won’t stand it 
this morning ! ” exclaimed Lady Comeston. 

Susannah looked wistfully at her sister. 

“ Am I doing wrong in any way, Emma ? ” she asked 
in a low voice. “ I am only here now because you in- 
sisted that I should stay ; you know I begged you to let 
me go home last night, and you would not let me go.” 
Her lips quivered a little. “ I want to help you, 
Emma,” she added ; “ but you make it very hard.” 

She moved away a few steps, and stood trying to 
smooth the look of trouble from her face, as Tora, 
covered with earth (a nice damp earth, the garden hav- 
ing been watered very early!) came eagerly back with 
the lost ball in her hand ; then the game of croquet went 
on again. 

Lady Comeston bit her lip, sat awhile and watched 
the girl and the child, and then got up suddenly and 
walked away. 

“ It’s no use,” she said to herself. ‘‘ If I say any 
more, I may only upset her. She means to stick to her 
word, that is sure, so I must just trust to chance that 
things will go better than I imagine with that horrid 
old woman I ” 

Back in the cool shadows of the hall Lady Comeston 


lU SUSANNAH 

ensconced herself in a chair, and tried to lose her un- 
easiness in looking through the illustrated papers. 

Once she spoke to a servant as he passed her. 

“Will you try and find Mr. Thrale.? . . . Please 
tell him I want to speak to him here. . . 

And the man had answered, informing her that Mr. 
Thrale had gone in the carriage to the station with 
Mr. Harraday. 

After breakfast, when Richard Calvert and Susan- 
nah had gone out together, Adrian had sauntered into 
the hall, and, having consulted an A.B.C., had just 
chosen the train he decided he would take for London, 
and his interview with his aunt (upon which he had 
finally determined), when Mr. Harraday brought him 
the information that Mrs. Thrale was expected at 
Tetherton Station in twenty minutes, and that they 
would have all their time cut out in getting there be- 
fore the train arrived. 

Adrian laughed softly to himself as he heard this. 

Evidently it was fated that all his efforts to check- 
mate Emma were to be frustrated. 

He strolled to and fro in the hall, smoking and 
thinking, till the carriage came round, and his thoughts 
circled entirely about Susannah. 

“ If she would have listened to me, I could have at 
least prepared her for this; . . . but now she is in 
for the whole caboosh . . . and I can’t put out a 
finger to help her. Not that I want to ! ” he decided 
at one moment with a grimness about his lips as he re- 
membered Susannah’s very outspoken rejection of his 


CHAPTER EIGHT 145 

aid; nevertheless, he found himself worrying in a 
measure about her as he got into the barouche with 
Mr. Harraday, and was driven off to the station. 

For about the first time in his remembrance, Adrian 
was devoutly thankful for George Harraday’s com- 
panionship. On other occasions he went considerably 
out of his way to avoid this fussy little man. As he 
had once said to Lady Comeston: 

“ I know Harraday has a good heart, but I object to 
the case in which it is kept.” 

However, George Harraday and his white waistcoat, 
and his irritating attempts at humour, and his good- 
natured vulgarity, were all helpful in this hour. 
Nevertheless, as it was really too hot to talk, and Mr. 
Harraday became drowsy, Adrian found himself drift- 
ing, against all his efforts, back once more into that 
vein of serious and not too pleasant reflection that had 
so disturbed him the night before. Alone in his room 
and the dawn, he had made acquaintance with certain 
facts for the first time in their true and extraordinarily 
disagreeable light, and now he was making the acquaint- 
ance of some more, equally true and equally disagree- 
able. 

Up to the hour when his aunt’s letter had reached 
him he had been inclined to regard the Comeston im- 
broglio a little humorously. Indeed, his first sensa- 
tion, when Lady Comeston had sought him on board 
the yacht at Trouville with frightened eyes, and a sud- 
denly changed face, and had given him her husband’s 
letter to read (that document in which a man’s stem 


146 SUSANNAH 

defence of his honour and a man’s heart anguish had 
mingled almost incongruously), had been to smile at 
the irony of the thing! For was there not something 
ironical in the fact that he, perhaps the only one out 
of all Emma Comeston’s male acquaintances who had 
reverenced her husband’s honour, should be the one upon 
whom this husband’s suspicion should have fallen? 

There was little of humour in Adrian’s mood now. 
That element of sudden self-dissatisfaction that had 
clung about him in the long, sleepless night hours at- 
tacked him now with the persistence of a physical pain. 

It was quite a new thing for Adrian Thrale to find 
any fault with the conditions of life as he lived it. He 
had always been of a contented mind, having, as he 
would have expressed it himself, “ a, real good time,” 
and nothing to worry him. Things had always been 
made pleasant for him. 

Left an orphan when a little child, he had been the 
care and the joy of his aunt by marriage, Mrs. John 
Thrale, who had lavished on this handsome lad all the 
yearning maternal love that bums so frequently in a 
childless woman’s heart. 

When he had left Eton and Oxford, there had been 
his father’s share in the big commercial firm (of which 
Mrs. Thrale was practically the head) waiting for him, 
and there had also been a place open for him in the 
old-fashioned office of that same prosperous firm. But 
Adrian had evinced no turn for commerce, and, to 
Sarah Thrale’s bitter disappointment, he had almost 
immediately taken steps to cut himself adrift from the 


CHAPTER EIGHT 147 

business, and had sold out his father’s share in the firm 
for a good lump sum. 

Money, when handled by Adrian, had a trick of van- 
ishing, and, in less time than any one could possibly 
have imagined, this good lump sum began to disappear. 

It was the old story of prodigal generosity, heedless 
extravagance, varied by wild plunging on the Stock 
Exchange, and follies of every description. 

For about a couple of years or so Adrian Thrale had 
lived at the rate of twenty thousand a year, and during 
that time Sarah Thrale had seen practically nothing 
of him. 

He had occasionally, it is true, sacrificed an evening 
to dine with the little hunchbacked woman who lived in 
such solitary grandeur in the big house in one of the 
most unfashionable squares (a house that had seemed 
to him paradise itself in his schoolboy days!) but he 
had only done this as a duty ; each time he had driven 
away he had heaved a sigh of relief. 

When the crash had come, however, Adrian Thrale 
had been shown what manner of love it was that he had 
been holding in such light esteem. 

Mrs. Thrale had at once accepted all his liabilities, 
though she endeavoured to discount her generosity by 
declaring that the honour of the firm compelled her to 
stand between him and the bankruptcy. Further, she 
let him understand that she required something from 
him, and this something was a promise to take up the 
place in the office which he had discarded. 

It was Mrs. Thrale’s great desire that Adrian should 


148 SUSANNAH 

qualify himself to step into her shoes when she was 
gone, and stand as the head of the firm which had 
brought fortune to the Thrale family for several gen- 
erations, and naturally she regarded his reverse of 
fortune as favourable to the development of this plan. 

Adrian had at once fallen in with her wishes — ^he 
could hardly have done otherwise — and had christened 
himself a City man. But the City had seen very little 
of him. He had. a room at the office, which he fur- 
nished luxuriously, and he occupied this room for an 
hour or so every now and then, but his duties soon 
became too laborious for him; at any rate, he had 
arranged for one of the clerks to attend to them, and 
for the honour of an occasional glimpse of his hand- 
some person in the dull old City office, where his father 
had worked so contentedly, the firm paid Mr. Adrian 
Thrale a certain yearly sum as salary, and by no means 
a small sum either. 

The arrangement had so far worked exceedingly well 
for Adrian. 

He found that his connection with the prosperous 
commercial firm had a decided social value, and, though 
his former ways were to a certain extent changed, he 
still managed to “ do himself very well.” 

For instance, here he was lolling back in a splendid 
carriage, smoking a very fine cigar, on a hot August 
morning, when he might have been broiling and toiling 
in a stuffy room in the City. And when he was bored 
in his present quarters, there were at least half a dozen 
invitations open to him, to shoot, to golf, to climb, to 


CHAPTER EIGHT 149 

yacht — in fact, to idle in any fashion that appeared 
to him the most amusing and profitable. 

Mr. Harraday awoke after a time, and mopped his 
brow, and exclaimed at the heat every other second as 
they traversed the country road through a cloud of 
dust. 

“ And you look as cool as a cucumber ! ” he said 
enviously once. 

And the funny part of it was that Adrian did feel 
very cool. 

It was a trivial and ordinary little circumstance that 
had produced that curious sensation of being frozen 
outwardly, while his heart and even his soul was burning 
with a horrible fire within — ^just the action of brush- 
ing some cigar-ash carefully away from his immaculate 
white trousers. As his eyes had rested on his neat 
brown boots (the work of the smartest bootmaker in 
town), on his silken hose, then on his delicate pearl 
shirt-links, and the rest of his attire, there came to him, 
instead of that smooth sense of satisfaction which the 
knowledge that he was turned out to perfection usually 
brought, a hot sensation of loathing for himself and his 
ultra-fine clothing. 

“ I am a pauper,” he said to himself, “ a lazy brute 
of a pauper, and everything I have comes from Sarah 
Thrale!” 

It was odd that no suggestion of this had ever 
touched him before. 

He had grown accustomed to take everything as a 
matter of course; it had seemed the most natural thing 


150 SUSANNAH 

in the world to let the old lady minister to him ; to turn 
to her whenever he found himself in a tight comer 
(which was not seldom), and allow her to take him 
out of it. There was so much money in the bank, only 
waiting to be drawn, and, when she had signed another 
cheque, Adrian could go ahead gaily again till he found 
himself in another comer. 

And all the while he had amused himself till now 
by pretending that he was working for his living; by 
letting himself suppose that the numerous and dainty 
appointments of his everyday existence were really sup- 
plied by the money earned by labour. 

“ Why, you’ve thrown away your cigar, Thrale, and 
it isn’t half smoked ! ” exclaimed Mr. Harraday, as the 
carriage stopped before the dusty, sun-scorched kind 
of shed that did duty for a station at this litle wayside 
railway stopping-place. 

But Adrian did not seem to hear; he pushed his way 
through the little booking-office, and walked out on 
to the platform beyond, seeing nothing, hearing 
nothing, conscious of nothing but the discovery he had 
just made. 

“ She as good as told me I was a cur this morning,” 
he said to himself in a stifled kind of way as he walked 
to the end of the narrow platform, with its bank of 
conscious and important flowers trimmed and arranged 
to spell the name of the station. He was thinking of 
Susannah ; “ and, by God,” he added bitterly, “ I 
now how right she was 1 ” 


see 


IX 

“ Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop 
Than when we soar.” 

Wordsworth. 

T ORA was sitting in Susannah’s lap, and Susan- 
nah was sitting on the grass, looking ahead 
of her in a dreamy kind of way. 

“ Go on,” said Tora ; and she pulled Susannah im- 
patiently by the cheek. “You just said, ‘and they 
came to a wood.’ And what did they do when they 
gotted there. Auntie Sue?” A pause, and then, 
“ ‘ They came to a wood. . . .’ Do you know,” 
queried Tora severely, “ that you’ve said that free 
times. Auntie Sue? Don’t you remember what they did 
when they got to the wood? This is rather a silly 
story, I fink.” 

“ I think it is,” agreed Susannah ; and she closed her 
eyes. 

She looked so tired ... so unlike her usual self, that 
even the child’s eyes saw the difference. 

“ Have you got a headache, my lovey-dovey ? ” she 
asked. “ Let me rub it away, then.” She put up her 
hot and rather dirty little hand and scrubbed Susan- 
nah’s forehead vigorously. “ That is where it hurts, 
isn’t it. Auntie Sue? ” she asked. “ That’s where you 
keep your imagination, I know.” 

151 


152 SUSANNAH 

It was late afternoon. 

The hot day was passing towards evening, but doing 
it grudgingly, as though unwilling to relinquish one 
iota of its power. 

And what a hot day it had been ! 

Susannah could never remember any summer day so 
hot, so oppressive, or so long! 

If it had not been for Tora, really she would hardly 
have known how to support the hours as they came. 

Tora was in her charge now. 

Nurse had gone in the morning; she had departed 
very red in the face, and inclined to be truculent. She 
found time to confide to the footman with the sandy 
hair that she considered she was being very badly 
treated. Her ladyship had no thought for anybody 
but herself, so said nurse ; whereas a holiday spent away 
from that horrible Hemstone Farmhouse would have 
been a holiday worth having. Here, where it was alto- 
gether different, of course there was no immediate need 
for a holiday. However, Lady Corneston had given 
her orders, and there was nothing to do but obey. 

Susannah was only too enchanted to take nurse’s 
place. Tora and she were going to sleep together. 

Here was a vista of unexpected delight 1 

To have Auntie Sue all to herself all night through 
was a joy that had always been denied till now. 

“ I won’t ask for another story not for a long, long 
. . . long time,” said Tora, as she strained herself up 
to kiss the white forehead which her little fingers had 
smudged so tenderly. 


CHAPTER NINE 153 

“ When we are back at the farm I will tell you lots 
and lots,” said Susannah, trying to smile. 

They had this corner of the garden to themselves. 
Tea had been served on the lawn, but Susannah and 
Tora had eloped together, and had made a feast for 
themselves in the summer-house, with the best doll’s 
tea-set, and real hot water and tea. 

It would be impossible to say how many pieces of 
doubtful-looking cake Susannah had not swallowed, 
and how many cups of washy stuff had gone the same 
road. The final cup she had managed artfully to dis- 
pose of, by pretending that a fairy who lived just under 
the grass was literally dying of thirst. 

Then they cleared up, and then they washed the 
tea-things — a heavenly task! and one in which Tora 
managed to splash herself from head to foot; and after 
that came story-time, and now Tora was resting after 
her labours. 

“ It is getting bedtime, sweetheart,” Susannah said, 
after they had sat rather quietly for a time. 

“ I’m finking,” said Tora, and her brow was wrinkled ; 
then she whispered, “ Auntie Sue, do you know what 
I always fink.?* . . . stoop down, no one must hear 
... I fink,” she confided in Susannah’s ear, “ that 
Nonie’s old aunt is a naughty, bad . . . fairy.” 

Susannah shook her head, with a faint smile. 

“ But, Auntie Sue, she’s all screweded and crooked, 
you know, just like that witch in my picture-book. 
And there’s a big, big lump on her back. I’m always 
frighted of her,” finished Tora. Then she nodded. 


154 SUSANNAH 

“And so is you too! I seed you get away from her 
when she tried to speak to you after lunch. Oh . . . h,” 
the child said with a whimper of real fear, “ here’s she 
coming. Oh, hold me tight, Auntie Sue ! . . .” 

“ Darling, don’t be silly ! ” pleaded Susannah. “ Mrs. 
Thrale is so kind. She loves you. Don’t you remem- 
ber what a beautiful doll she sent you last Christmas.? 
She loves all little children.” 

But Tora clung to her more tightly. 

If Susannah’s own heart beat a little too quickly at 
sight of the small, crooked figure coming so slowly 
through the trees towards them, Tora knew nothing 
of that. 

When Mrs. Thrale was quite near to them, Susannah 
looked across the child’s crouched form into the eyes of 
the old woman and smiled faintly. 

“We are just going in . . . she is getting tired. I 
am afraid I have forgotten the time, she usually goes 
to bed at this hour.” 

Mrs. Thrale’s eyes were the only good feature in 
her thin, pathetic face, and they were beautiful just 
now, so soft, so full of tenderness. “ And the day has 
been so hot, and she has been so busy, dear little soul! ” 
she answered; and then she pretended to fumble in 
a satin bag she carried, resting on her stick the 
while. 

“ I wonder if any little girl would like a chocolate 
bunny .? ” she said. “ I do believe I know where a choc- 
olate bunny could be found, but my fingers are too big 
to go into the corners of this bag. I want some very 


CHAPTER NINE 155 

little fingers . . . oh, but very, *very little fin- 

gers ! . . .” 

“ I’ve got *very little fingers,” said Tora, peeping 
round from the shelter of Susannah’s arm. She spread 
out her small hand to demonstrate that she was telling 
a truth. 

“ Ah,” said the old woman decisively, “ but your 
fingers are much too big for the comers of my bag! I 
am sure they are I ” 

“ Let me try I ” was the child’s eager answer ; and 
she slipped to the ground, and, standing beside the 
crippled figure, she began to grope bravely in the 
depths of the black satin satchel. 

Mrs. Thrale stood leaning on her stick, and watched 
the pretty little creature go to work so eagerly ; then she 
turned and smiled at Susannah. “ I came to look for 
you, my dear,” she said. The chocolate rabbit had 
made a triumphant appearance. “ You vanished after 
luncheon, and I have been resting in my room, and 
writing letters. ... I thought Adrian was with you, 
of course; but I have just met him returning from a 
long cycle ride. He was white with dust from head to 
foot. Just like a miller,” she finished, smiling at 
Tora. 

“ I think,” said Susannah hurriedly, “ he promised to 
go and see Mr. Calvert this afternoon. At least, I 
heard them arranging something of the sort at break- 
fast-time.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mrs. Thrale. “ I am glad that he 
should go and see Dick. Now, shall we all go in? I 


156 SUSANNAH 

wonder if I might come and see that chocolate bunny 
in his bath? ” 

The very suggestion sent Tora dancing forward to 
put her hand into the small, wrinkled one outstretched. 

“ It is a long way across the grass, and there are so 
many stairs . . . and you may be tired,” said Susan- 
nah. 

“ If I may go my own pace, I shall do it,” Mrs. 
Thrale answered ; “ but I must go slowly . . . slowly 
. . . slowly, like a snail.” 

Tora nodded her head; a little bit of the chocolate 
bunny’s ear had disappeared — only a little bit, but it 
tasted very deliciously. 

“ Ah ! now I see,” she said in clear treble voice, 
‘‘ that’s why you always carry your house on your 
back.” 

Susannah coloured quickly and bit her lip, but Mrs. 
Thrale only laughed. 

“ One of the sweetest elements in childhood is the 
fearless way in which the truth is told,” she said; and 
then, as she saw the girl’s sensitive face change, she 
paused a moment, and, releasing her hand from Tora’s 
hold, she laid it on Susannah’s arm. “We are going 
to learn to know one another, I hope — to love one 
another — very soon, dear child,” she said ; her tone was 
wistful, and yet eager. “ Now that you belong to my 
hoy, you have a special place in my heart, but,” she 
smiled, “ I believe I could get quickly fond of you, for 
your own nice self. And, then, we are not quite 
strangers, you know, Susannah.” 


CHAPTER NINE 157 

Susannah made a gallant effort at self-control. 

“ I was always glad when you came to see my mother 
. . . you seemed to do her good. Poor mother,” she 
said with a catch in her voice like a sigh, “ so few people 
have found time to remember her of late years. . . .” 

Mrs. Thrale’s hand slipped down, and rested a mo- 
ment on the girl’s hands. 

“ It is strange,” she said ; ‘‘ but I have thought of 
you so often, Susannah. And I have often wondered 
what you were making of your life. I have never for- 
gotten your big, beautiful eyes, with their searching 
eagerness, their sympathy, and their fearless innocence. 
... It must have been one of those mysterious mag- 
netic influences which circle about our hearts and 
thoughts, unrealized for the most part, that has kept 
my spirit in touch with yours. By this time,” said 
Mrs. Thrale, as they moved on slowly again, “ you will 
know how dear my boy is to me . . . he is — he always 
has been — the one thing that means happiness for me, 
and so when I tell you that my heart leaped when Ed- 
mund Corneston gave me the news that you had prom- 
ised to be Adrian’s wife, you will understand how ready, 
how eager I am to share my love with you, Susannah. 
. . . I have dreamed so often of his wife,” the old 
woman said softly, “ and sometimes I have feared for 
his future. I have been so afraid he might choose 
unwisely. . . .” 

Susannah said nothing; she had turned very white, 
and everything in front of her, about her, was blurred 
suddenly. 


158 SUSANNAH 

At this moment Tora gave a little scream of delight, 
and, wrenching her hand free from Mrs. Thale’s, she 
rushed forward helter-pelter to greet a familiar figure 
that was coming across the grass. 

“Oh, Nonie . . . Nonie . . . where have you been? 
. . . What do you fink? . . . Nannie’s goneded. . . . 
She has ! indeed she has ! It’s reelity I’m telling 
you! Mamma’s gived her a holiday, and Auntie Sue 
and me is going to sleep together! Won’t it be lov- 
ally? ” 

Adrian picked up the chilcj and laughed. 

“ That sounds very restful for Auntie Sue,” he said. 
Then quite simply he spoke to Susannah. “ You look 
thoroughly tired,” he said ; “ surely nurse need not have 
gone away? Not, at least, without some one to take 
her place while she is away ? ” 

A crimson flush suffused Susannah’s cheek. 

“ Oh, I love to be with the child,” she said ; “ we are 
just going in now. It is bedtime.” 

“ Tora is coming with me,” said the old woman. 
“ And Adrian wants you to himself, I am sure, for a 
little while.” 

There was a change in her expression, and she looked 
quickly from the young man’s face to the girl as Adrian 
put the child down. 

Strangely enough Tora agreed graciously to go 
back to the house with Mrs. Thrale; that black satin 
bag might contain another treasure. Who could 
say? 

The old woman whispered a few words to Adrian. 


CHAPTER NINE 159 

Y’ou are quite right; Susannah ought to rest a 
little. She has had the child with her all the after- 
noon.” 

Feeling hot and cold and miserably uncomfortable, 
Susannah paused, and watched Tora and that small, 
bent figure pass slowly under the trees. They could 
hear the child’s voice chattering volubly and confiden- 
tially. Then, when they were out of ear-shot, Susan- 
nah turned to Adrian. 

“ I am sorry that I spoke to you as I did this morn- 
ing,” she said nervously, and yet proudly. “ I . . . 
I understand now what you wanted to say to me. I 
see that you really did want to help me. I . . . am 
sorry.” 

She turned sharply round and walked in an aimless 
fashion back to the place where the doll’s tea-party had 
been held, and Adrian followed her. 

“ I am still at your service,” he said in a low voice. 

Susannah pressed her hand to her brow, and did not 
speak for a moment, then she said: 

“ I have such a horrible headache. I . . . my eyes 
hurt me so much. ... I can hardly see.” 

Adrian moved quickly to the summer-house and 
dragged out a basket-chair, and Susannah sat down 
in it, still keeping one of her hands pressed to her head, 
and the other to her throat. 

For a moment Adrian stood looking at her unde- 
cidedly, then he said in a very quiet, matter-of-fact 
way; 

“ I think I can cure your headache. Just rest back 


160 SUSANNAH 

in the chair and close your eyes. I will be back in ten 
minutes at the outside.” 

Susannah put her head back and closed her eyes just 
as he had told her to do, and gradually the contracting 
pain in her throat grew less, and the blood seemed to 
cease throbbing in her temples ; those few moments of 
solitude with the faintest of breezes murmuring the 
approach of the coming dusk, and cooling the air, were 
very, very welcome. 

No particular thought was obtrusive in this little 
spell of tranquillity. She drifted into a kind of hazi- 
ness, and opened her eyes with a start when she felt that 
some one was standing near her. 

Adrian had a glass of water in his hand, and a little 
bottle. 

“ I must not give you too strong a dose,” he said. 
‘‘ Do you often have headaches? ” He dropped a few 
drops from the phial into the water as he spoke. 

“ Only now and then,” Susannah said after she had 
, swallowed the draught. . . . “ And that is only when 
I think too much, as I do sometimes,” she added. 

“ Is there any time for thinking at a farm? ” asked 
Adrian, as he put the glass down on the table in the 
summer-house. “ Don’t worry, Tora is all right,” he 
added, as he saw that she was about to move. “ Aunt 
Sarah has a wonderful power of interesting and 
fascinating little folk. . . . But what was I saying? 
Oh, is not everybody very busy at a farm? I have been 
over to see Dick Calvert this afternoon. I never saw 
any one work so much in all my life! I left him en- 


CHAPTER NINE 161 

gaged in mending a pump that had gone wrong. He 
seemed to know just exactly where the wrong was and 
how to set it right. What a good chap he is, a sort of 
sermon in the flesh, and do you know. Miss Richland,” 
— ^Adrian talked on in easy fashion, feeling slightly 
comforted as he saw how her self-command was creeping 
back to her, — “ that Dick has quite a romance in his 
life.? They tell me he was very good-looking when he 
was a boy, and he started with everything at his back. 
Went into one of the crack cavalry regiments, and was 
immensely popular. You know, of course, this place 
belongs to him.? Well, everything was all right for him 
till his father died, and then ... he woke up one fine 
morning to find himself ruined ... at least what 
society would call ruined. . . . Everybody had sup- 
posed old Calvert to have been made of money, but he 
had played ducks and drakes with all he had, and every 
bit of his property was mortgaged up to the hilt. So 
Dick chucked the army, and took up farming, and as 
long as his mother was alive he kept the Bourne open, 
but when she was gone, and he had no one but himself to 
consider, he made haste to let it, and his one ambition 
has been all these years to get enough money in to pay 
off the debts that burden the estate, and to leave it 
free for the man that comes after him. And that 
man ought to be his own son,” said Adrian warmly; 
“ but there lies the other side of Dick’s romance. He 
was very badly hit once by some woman. At any rate, 
he will never marry now. His mother and my mother 
were cousins. I used to come here and spend some of 


162 SUSANNAH 

my holidays when I was a little chap, and a splendid 
time I had, too! . . . Now,” asked Adrian with a faint 
smile, “ how do you feel? Is the headache gone? ” 

Susannah smiled back. 

“ Very nearly. What wonderful stuff ; what is it? ” 

“ Oh, it has a Latin name,” said Adrian as he rose 
to his feet. “ But it must only be used on special occa- 
sions. I can see you are eager to go back to the house, 
but you need not bother about Tora. ... I heard my 
aunt asking for her maid, that means that the child is 
in safe hands. Why not sit here a little longer? ” 

Susannah paused an instant ; she had half risen, but 
his words tempted her, and she sank back in the chair. 

“ It is not often that I am so tired,” she said with 
a little smile. 

There was a silence between them, and then Adrian 
spoke. 

“ You have heard that there is a possibility of Cor- 
neston coming here to-morrow ? ” he asked abruptly. 

Susannah looked round quickly, and changed colour 
as she shook her head. 

“ I have not spoken to Emma all day.” 

Adrian sat down on the steps of the summer-house. 

“ The difficulties are increasing,” he said. “ Emma 
launched this business with as little heed as a schoolboy 
flings a pebble into a pond; perhaps, like a schoolboy, 
she now enjoys watching the ripples spread and spread 
till they reach the edge of the pond I ” 

The bitterness in his tone hurt Susannah. She saw 
a change in him ; that easy manner that to her sensitive 


CHAPTER NINE 163 

spirit had seemed akin to flippancy in the early morn- 
ing was gone entirely. When he had been speaking 
about Richard Calvert he had drifted back a little into, 
a tone of cheerfulness ; now he looked moody . . . un- 
comfortable. 

“ Emma was very, very unhappy,” Susannah said, 
“ and when people are unhappy they are not al- 
ways reasonable.” Then she sat forward, her heart 
beating a little quickly, and bringing some colour into 
her cheeks. “ I feel,” she said, “ that perhaps we are 
taking everything too seriously. To-morrow Tora and 
I will go home, and then, in a little while, . . . you 
. . . can explain that it was a mistake. We should 
not be the first two people to confess to a mistake, 
should we? ” She got up, and Adrian got up too. 

He was looking at her, scarcely conscious that he 
found her wonderfully pretty ; only relieved to hear her 
speak more brightly, to see her face free of that con- 
tracted look. 

“ If you can get through to-night,” he said, “ I will 
myself drive you and Tora to your home to-morrow, 
if you will allow me to do so. We might quarrel on 
the way.” His eyes had a touch of their old mischief in 
them for an instant, and Susannah laughed, though 
she blushed too. 

As she turned to go back to the house, Adrian turned 
with her. 

“ If it could be done without giving you further 
annoyance,” he said a little hurriedly, “ I feel I should 
be so glad to let my aunt remain in her present state 


164 SUSANNAH 

of contentment a little longer. . . . She is so happy ! 
. . . and she has lost her heart to you completely. . . . 
Poor old soul ! She has not had too much in her life to 
make her happy. . . .” 

Susannah was silent a moment. 

“ In this moment,” she said a little haltingly, “ it 
seems to me that the only way we can try and make 
wrong seem a little right is by thinking of others . . . 
of your aunt, and of Edmund.” She was silent an 
instant, and then she said hurriedly, “ To speak the 
truth now would be so cruel! ... In fact, it does not 
seem to me as if we should ever be able to tell the truth. 
... I believe,” Susannah went on after another pause, 
“ I have grown a year older for each hour I have spent 
here. ... I am beginning to feel quite worldly wise! 
Even Mr. Calvert said he saw a difference in me this 
morning.” 

“ Dick is a great friend of yours, isn’t he? ” queried 
Adrian. 

“ What is a friend? ” Susannah answered. “ Up to 
yesterday I believe I was what Tora calls ‘ frighted ’ of 
Mr. Calvert, and to-day I felt as if he were the only 
person in the world I could trust! He reminds me of 
my father,” she added very softly, almost tenderly. . . . 

Adrian let her remain in silence for a moment or two, 
but as they emerged on to the lawn he spoke again. 

“And you will go back to your farm to-morrow?” 

“ Yes,” said Susannah, “ if I can, but . . .” She 
laughed a little nervously. ‘^Well, it is rather difficult 
to make plans. ... If Emma wants me to stay . . . 


CHAPTER NINE 165 

I suppose I shall stay . . . and, now. that you tell me 
Edmund is coming, it seems very likely she may wish 
this, or it may be otherwise. ... I don’t know.” 

“ Well, look here, I will leave you now,” said Adrian, 
and he suddenly stood still; and Susannah, a little 
startled, stood also. “ But, before you go, will you 
tell me that you will try and not think too badly of 
me? Though you may find it hard to believe me, I 
give you my word of honour. Miss Richland, that I 
would rather have faced Corneston a hundred times over 
than have had you dragged in to square matters in this 
foolish and vexatious way. . . .” 

The light was fading; all was dim, and soft, and de- 
liciously cool and fresh about them. 

Susannah answered him at once, her voice just a 
little shy. 

“ I am very glad to believe you,” she said, and then 
murmuring something about Tor a, she moved on ; and 
he stood and watched her slim figure pass through the 
gloaming like a white spirit, till she reached the house 
and vanished within. 


X 


“The young girls have gone down to the river; they sink among 
the tufts of lilies. A young man on horseback passes by the edge 
of the river, close to the young girls. One of them has felt her 
heart beat, and her face has changed colour. But the tufts of 
lilies close around him.” — Judith Gautier (after Li~Tai-F4). 

J UST because everything seemed to work out 
smoothly. Lady Corneston was cross and dissatis- 
fied; and the person with whom she was the most 
annoyed was Susannah. 

And this chiefly because it was displeasing to her 
vanity to find herself set on one side temporarily; and 
everybody in the house seemed to be unanimous in ad- 
miring her sister. Indeed, had she been just, Emma 
herself must have conceded that Susannah looked amaz- 
ingly pretty and attractive in her white evening frock. 
The various odds and ends which Lady Corneston had 
sent to her sister’s room had been returned. Susannah 
preferred to wear her own clothes, simple and shabby 
as they were; the result was, that the girl looked what 
she was, a fresh young creature, innocent of artifice, and 
suggesting the fragrance of the flowers that grow in 
woods and wild places. 

Her gown had been washed and ironed many times; 
she had no jewels, not even a brooch. 

166 


CHAPTER TEN 167 

“ What is Adrian going to give you for an engage- 
ment ring? ” Mrs. Harraday had queried with mischief 
and malice mingled when Susannah came down into the 
drawing-room a little late, as Tora had been late in 
going to sleep. Sarah Thrale’s maid had arranged to 
stay in the child’s room till Susannah went up to bed. 

The girl flushed hotly for an instant, then she had 
laughed, and then she turned to Adrian, who was quite 
close. 

“ Perhaps you can enlighten Mrs. Harraday,” she 
said demurely, though her eyes were very bright. 

Adrian smiled into those eyes, he took from his finger 
a ring that he always wore, an old broad band of gold 
with a single diamond in it, and lifting her small hand, 
he slipped it on, shaking his head as he did so. 

“ Too big ! ” he said ; “ suppose we hang it round 
your neck.” 

He unsnapped his watch-chain, and made it into a 
necklace, slung the ring on it, and gravely fastened the 
chain about the pretty white throat. 

The touch of his fingers made Susannah feel hot 
again, and she blushed this time almost from a sensa- 
tion of fear. 

Sarah Thrale looked at them standing together with 
a mist over her eyes. A little nonplussed, Mrs. Harra- 
day had laughed, and turned away, making a grimace 
to Lady Comeston, and shrugging her shoulders as she 
did so. 

Emma was laughing a little shrilly. 

Even to see Adrian Thrale talking to Susannah 


168 SUSANNAH 

(after the ring episode, the supposed lovers were left 
to themselves) and looking at the girl in a serious way 
that was wholly new to him, made her jealous and very 
angry. 

Emma had not begun to recover as yet from that un- 
pleasant interview out on the terrace ; the old vexation 
that always troubled her when she saw Adrian devoting 
himself to some other woman fretted her sharply and 
with a new sting now. 

At dinner Susannah was given the place of honour, 
and sat between Mr. Harraday and Adrian. A sparkle 
of excitement, and in a sense enjoyment, radiated Su- 
sannah’s spirit in this hour. 

She said practically nothing to the younger man, 
though this was unnoticed because Adrian seemed to 
have so much to say to her ; but she chatted and laughed 
with Mr. Harraday, and only now and then, when she 
caught sight of Sarah Thrale’s narrow face, did Su- 
sannah lose her gaiety. 

Lady Comeston decided that she had a real grievance 
with her sister. 

“ To make such a scene, to have made me feel I was 
doing something horrible, and now to flirt with Adrian 
and to . . . pretend everything. 1 call it downright 
indecent,” said Emma to herself. “ The next time Sue 
looks down her nose, and tries to make me believe she is 
so very strait-laced, I shall know how to deal with her ! ” 

After dinner Lady Corneston had another surprise. 

Susannah went to the piano, and played and sang 
charmingly. 


CHAPTER TEN 169 

This was Mr. Harraday’s doing. At dinner he had 
declared he was convinced that Susannah sang, and he 
got a promise out of her that she would give him “ Sally 
in our Alley,” and “ Believe me, if all those endearing 
young charms.” 

When Susannah was taken to the piano. Lady Cor- 
neston got up. 

“ Oh, dearest,” she said affectionately, “ no one is 
the least musical here ! . . . The piano is never opened.” 

But Susannah only smiled. 

“ My host has asked me to sing,” she said, “ and I 
have been taught that little girls should always do what 
they are asked, if they can. . . .” 

Emma stared at her ; Susannah as a meek little lamb 
she knew well, but Susannah with a spirit was quite a 
new acquaintance. 

“ It is the first time I ever knew you could sing,” she 
said shortly. “ I think you are ever so brave, dear, 
when Monsieur di Bartini is smoking in the hall.” 

Susannah laughed as she sat at the piano, round 
which Mr. Harraday was fussing. 

“ Monsieur di Bartini no doubt has heard bad sing- 
ing before. I understand he has a lot of pupils,” she 
said, and she began to play softly. 

Old Sarah Thrale was sitting very near, her small 
white wrinkled hands busy with some knitting. 

“ Come and sit down by me, Emma,” she said, “ I 
want to admire your very pretty gown, and all your 
pretty new jewels. I am sure Edmund will be quite 
fascinated when he sees that gown; besides we have not 


170 SUSANNAH 

discussed the news. I fancy somehow that this happy 
engagement has been your work.? If this is so . . . 
you are to be congratulated, my dear.” Mrs. Thrale’s 
voice was quite soft and kind, the expression of her eyes 
as she bent over her knitting for a moment was hidden, 
but Emma Comeston frowned. 

If she could have dared to do so she would have 
flounced away, but she was afraid to refuse, so she sat 
down, and listened impatiently while Susannah sang on, 
song after song. 

“ It is a clever pose,” she said spitefully to herself, as 
all the men except Adrian came in from the hall. “ How 
right Ada was when she said that all girls were sly ! ” 

“ Yes,” said old Mrs. Thrale, “ that is a charming 
gown, Emma! Let me see, who did you say had 
made it .? ” 

Lady Corneston endeavoured to chat pleasantly to 
the old lady, but she was fidgety, and felt inclined to 
cry ; even Cyril Danecourt was standing near the piano. 
Among the numerous little matters that pricked and 
annoyed her in this moment, a letter from her mother 
had a prominent place. 

Mrs. Richland had sent back an answer to Lady 
Corneston’s scribbled note, stating that she had, much 
to her amazement, received that morning a letter of af- 
fectionate congratulation from Sarah Thrale, and then 
she went on to discuss the subject of Susannah’s sup- 
posed engagement quite seriously. 

“ I have not the least idea where Sue can have met 
Adrian Thrale,” Mrs. Richland wrote, ‘‘ but then I 


CHAPTER TEN 171 

know practically nothing of what she does with her 
life. She goes out at odd times to various houses in the 
neighbourhood, so I suppose she must have come across 
him at a garden party or a picnic. In any case such a 
marriage would be the best thing possible for her. I 
don’t quite understand what you mean by a joke in 
connection with this, for Mrs. Thrale’s letter treats of 
the matter as settled ; but if there is likely to be a hitch 
(and Sue is rather difficult) I do beg of you, my dear 
Emma, to do your best to smooth things over. . . . 
From what I have heard, I have reason to believe that 
Adrian Thrale will inherit all that the old woman has to 
leave. Such a chance may never come in Sue’s way 
again.” 

Emma had torn this letter into little bits rather 
savagely. She had never imagined that her mother 
would have taken matters in this light. Mrs. Rich- 
land’s indifference to Susannah was such an old story. 

“ But of course mother is practical,” Emma had 
sneered to herself. “ She sees a good future for herself 
if Sue were to marry money ! I ought to have thought 
of that ! How hateful everything is. . . . And I shall 
never, never get my brooch back ! Oh ! if I could only 
know who it was put Edmund on to me, and made all this 
horrible bother, I should feel a little better! ” 

Mrs. Thrale was perfectly conscious that the dainty 
little creature beside her was fretting and fuming to 
get away, but she had not done with Emma. 

Vaguely she grasped the fact that Lady Corneston 
was not in sympathy with her sister, and this, allied 


m SUSANNAH 

to other little things that had been revealed to her in 
the course of the day, made her begin to fear that the 
happiness she had permitted herself to grasp these last 
few days was not substantially or satisfactorily based. 

That Emma should be jealous of her sister in this 
moment seemed to Sarah Thrale pretty conclusive; for 
she knew Emma’s type very well, but where she was 
rather in the dark was, as to why Emma should object 
to the engagement, which undoubtedly had been brought 
about through her in some f ashion or other. 

Gradually it was becoming evident to the old woman 
that there was something going on which it was con- 
sidered desirable that she should not know. 

She had already remarked that Adrian was very 
unlike his usual self. Susannah’s constrained manner 
had seemed to her only natural when they had first met ; 
but now, as she sat knitting, and listening to the girl’s 
fresh voice, singing with simple pathos the old-fashioned 
ballads, she seemed to feel that Susannah was strung up 
to play a part, that the laughter, the sparkle in her 
eyes, and the gaiety that seemed so spontaneous, were all 
put on. 

The mere suggestion that this betrothal might never 
pass into marriage sent a pang of bitterest disappoint- 
ment and regret through Sarah Thrale’s heart. 

“ I must go into this a little further,” she said to 
herself ; “ but I shall be very careful, and if any one 
tries to force enlightenment on me, I shall be conveni- 
ently blind and dense ! At any cost, I shall try to pre- 
vent this child from slipping through my fingers!” 


CHAPTER TEN 173 

Out loud she was chatting on in a dry sort of way to 
Lady Corneston. And when she had managed to let 
Emma understand that she knew just a little bit about 
the petty malice and jealousy that was holding sway in 
the younger woman’s mind, she rose and hobbled out of 
the room. 

She wanted to find Adrian. But he was not in the 
hall, neither was he on the terrace, nor in any of the 
ground-fioor rooms. 

By instinct Sarah Thrale seemed to know that he 
would not be wandering alone under the trees in the 
moonlight. 

“ Perhaps he is in his own room,” she said to herself, 
and in her slow, laborious way she mounted the stairs. 

Adrian was in his room, seated at the table writing, 
when she knocked at the door and entered. The last 
person he expected, or in a sense desired, to see, was 
his aunt. 

He sprang to his feet hastily. 

‘‘ My dear, why did you climb all those stairs.?^ ” he 
exclaimed, ‘almost reproachfully. 

“ You should not have run away,” said Mrs. Thrale, 
as he carefully put her into a comfortable chair. “ Su- 
sannah has been singing. It is not very grand singing, 
Nonie, but she has a deliciously sweet voice; there is a 
plaintive note in it which touches my old heart at least. 
George Harraday has been weeping profusely.” Then 
Mrs. Thrale smiled, and stretched out her hand. “ My 
dear lad,” she said, “ it is a long time since I saw you ! ” 

Adrian’s heart contracted. That passionate out- 


174 SUSANNAH 

burst of self-condemnation that had swept him so com- 
pletely out of his customary path in the morning had 
left him nervous, restless, almost miserable. 

“ Why don’t you scold me? ” he said, as he took her 
hand and pressed it, and then carried it to his lips. 

“ To scold you is beyond me ! ” the old woman re- 
plied with a laugh and a sigh mingled. ‘‘ I am not 
going to stay very long now; but you said something 
to-day about going away from here to-morrow, so as I 
want just ten minutes’ quiet talk with you before you 
go, I thought I would come and find you. You see,” 
Mrs. Thrale added, “ your changed circumstances neces- 
sitate a little business talk.” 

Adrian Thrale winced. 

He had seated himself on the edge of the table, and 
his arms were folded across his breast. 

“ If by that you mean money. Aunt Sarah,” he said, 
‘‘ don’t let us go any farther.” 

“ But we must,” the old lady answered briskly. 
“ You cannot marry Susannah without understanding 
clearly how you are placed financially.” 

“ I do know it, believe me,” said Adrian, “ though I 
never realized it until to-day. Aunt Sarah, you have 
been an angel to me ; and just because you have been so 
good, I suppose, I have treated you as most human 
beings do treat angels. I have shut the door on you, 
and kept you outside my life, outside my heart, even 
outside my thoughts. . . . Well, now,” said Adrian; 
and he got up, and turned firstly very red, and then 
quite pale, “ this is all changed. I have opened the door. 


CHAPTER TEN 175 

and I have taken you in ; but I want only you ... I 
don’t want more help. I cannot take more money. Oh, 
don’t you see,” he said a little fiercely, “ what a lazy 
coward I have been all this time? Happily, it is not 
too late to change, and I am going to work — but work 
in downright earnest. Perhaps, after all, I shall show 
you that you can have some trust in me.” 

Sarah Thrale’s eyes were wet. 

“ You shall work,” she said ; “ but you are not going 
to deny me the only joy that life holds for me, are you, 
Nonie? I always intended, when you married, to pass 
over to you half the money that will come to you at my 
death. I have already taken steps to arrange for this ; 
and if you will not accept the money for yourself, then 
you must let me settle it on Susannah.” 

“ Do nothing, I beg ... for the moment,” Adrian 
said, when he could speak. “ I ... I tell you I have 
only wakened out of a dream, as it were, in these last 
few hours. Life, in its real significance, has never come 
to me before. I don’t want to make you unhappy, 
dear,” he said ; and he turned, and, sitting down beside 
her, he took her hand in his ; “ but I do want you not to 
build too much on this . . . this marriage. So many 
things may happen. And, after all,” he said almost 
sternly, “ you. know that I have no right to ask any 
woman to marry me until I have made at least a small 
place for myself in the world.” 

Mrs. Thrale was silent a moment. This confirmation 
of her fear that all was not well was a grief to her. 

“ If it troubles you, I will not speak of this now,” she 


176 SUSANNAH 

said ; and she got up rather wearily. ‘‘ But it does not 
hurt you, does it, dear lad, to hear me say that you have 
given me solace these last few days that my heart has 
been hungering for for many, many years I always 
hoped that you would find some real-woman nature to 
join with yours. ... It was not until I met Susannah 
to-day that I realized how possible this could be.” She 
put her hand on Adrian’s arm. “ Whatever comes, try 
to keep this love in your life, Nonie,” she said in a 
low voice. “Now, will you take me to my room.?* I 
shall not go downstairs again; but you might tell Su- 
sannah that I should like to say good-night to her. I 
am going to arrange with her to drive over with me to- 
morrow to see her mother. I want to steal Susannah 
for a little while. I mean to take her away with me. I 
believe we should know how to be happy together.” 

Adrian stood some little time looking out of a win- 
dow in the passage outside his aunt’s room; then he 
turned, and went downstairs. 

The singing was over, and Susannah had vanished. 

The card-tables were being arranged. 

Mrs. Harraday was carefully calculating her bridge 
account. 

“ I lost nearly fifteen pounds last night,” she said 
to her partner. “ I must get it back, and more too, if 
possible, to-night.” Then she looked up and saw 
Adrian. 

“Well, engaged man, and how are you enjoying 
yourself? ” she inquired, and her teeth gleamed. “ It 
seems to me as if you were doing yourself rather well. 


CHAPTER TEN 177 

She is really quite pretty, though Emma said she was a 
fright. . . . But don’t have the wedding too soon; for 
I absolutely must give you a present, and I am stony 
just now — ^haven’t a solitary sou. You’ll ask me to 
see you, won’t you, Nonie.? ” she laughed on, as she 
closed her little book, and swung back her chair till it 
rested on two legs. ‘‘ I am quite sure Susannah will keep 
a good cook,” she said. “ That’s the one excellent point 
about a country girl : she is bound to be a decent house- 
keeper. ... So I shall invite myself to lunch and 
dine pretty often. ... I do so adore eating food in 
other people’s houses.” 

Adrian sat astride a chair, and answered her in the 
same semi-slangy f ashion ; but he managed dexterously 
to work the conversation away from Susannah, and to 
talk about Mrs. Harraday — a subject of unfading in- 
terest to Mrs. Harraday. 

When the card-tables were full he rose, and pressed 
his hostess’s narrow hand. 

“ I shall be off before you are down to-morrow,” he 
said, “ so I will say au revoir now.” 

“ Going ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Harraday, with some sur- 
prise and some honest regret; for really he was very 
good to look at. 

“Yes. . . . I am due at the Barkstones in Norfolk, 
you know, and I must put in an appearance. ... You 
have given me an awfully good time ; I am quite 
sorry to go.” 

“ Oh, but you will come back again, of course.^ I 
shan’t let you go unless you promise this.” 


178 SUSANNAH 

‘‘ I will promise you anything,’’ said Adrian with a 
brilliant spurt of gallantry. 

Mrs. Harraday pulled him back as he was going. 

“ You are quite right to go,” she whispered; “ it has 
been awfully rough on you. Emma should manage 
things better. . . . But you must not be cross with me, 
Nonie; . . . you know I’m awfully fond of you . . . 
awfully!” 

Adrian smiled down into the dark eyes that had nar- 
rowed till they were hardly more than a slit ; it seemed to 
him that her small brown face, with those gleaming 
subtle eyes, had the look of a serpent; he loathed her 
suddenly, and all that went with her. 

He made his way to his aunt’s room. 

She was seated by the window. 

“ I know,” she said, nodding her head, as he ap- 
proached her ; “ Susannah has gone to bed. Marcher 
has just come to me; she was staying with Tora, you 
know, till Susannah came upstairs. Never mind, I 
shall see her in the morning.” 

“ I wish you would take her away from here,” Adrian 
said restlessly. “ She . . .” He pulled himself up. 
“ I know she wants to go home. There is something ar- 
ranged about Tora going back with her to the farm; 
the sooner they go, the better. . . .” 

“ I shall arrange to take them both away with me,” 
said Mrs. Thrale quietly, “ unless, of course, Susan- 
nah feels she must go to her mother; then I shall wait 
a little while, but not long. I must have her to myself. 
• • . I feel I need her.” 


CHAPTER TEN 179 

“ And you will forgive me if I leave you to-morrow, 
dear, . . said Adrian unsteadily. “ I am under a 
promise to go and stay in Norfolk, . . . but I shall 
see you in town very soon.” 

Mrs. Thrale sat very quietly for a long time after her 
nephew had gone ; then she called to her maid. 

“ Give me my stick. Marcher. I want to speak to 
Miss Richland a moment.” 

Susannah was in her white dressing-gown, standing 
looking out of the window into the tender shadows of 
the night, when there came a half-timid knock at her 
door. She paused, and looked over her shoulder a little 
nervously, and then she crossed the room. 

A slight exclamation of surprise escaped her as she 
saw the small crooked figure, and the pathetic, wizened 
face framed just within the door. 

“ I want to say good-night, child,” said Mrs. Thrale. 
“ I have a fancy to hold you in my arms, and to kiss 
you, Susannah. Will you let me.'* ” 

Susannah drew her into the room, and then she knelt 
down and buried her face on the rich lace that covered 
the contracted breast of the cripple ; kneeling, she was 
just the height to be enfolded in the small arms. She 
remembered suddenly, with a choking sensation in her 
throat, how even as a very little child she had longed 
to be kissed, and held in her mother’s arms when bed- 
time came. Was this the love that had been denied her 
all her life.? And was it to be barred from her now? 

They spoke together only a few moments, and parted 
with a smile, but as she saw the little distorted figure 


180 SUSANNAH 

pass away from her, going so slowly along the corridor, 
Susannah hardly knew how she kept back the confession 
of the truth. 

A longing possessed her to run after Sarah Thrale, 
and, kneeling once again, to plead to the old woman for 
this love ; not merely because she was supposed to belong 
to Adrian, but because she was alone, ... so utterly 
alone, and because, when this little spell of a strange 
new life should have ended, should have passed into a 
memory, the loneliness would be greater than before ! 

But Sarah Thrale moved slowly on, and the con- 
fession was not spoken. 

To tell the truth would be Indeed cruel just now ! 

“ Fortunately,” said Susannah to herself with a touch 
of new-born cynicism, “ truth is very patient ; it has 
grown used to waiting ! ” 


XI 

“ With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow. 

And with my own hand wrought to make it grow. 

And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d — 

‘ I came like water, and like wind I go.’ ” 

Ruha’iyat of Omar Khayyam, 

C ERTAINLY,” said Mrs. Richland, and she 
spoke sharply. “ I wish you to go with Mrs. 
Thrale. It is most natural that she should 
want to have you with her just now. Please don’t make 
a fuss. Sue; . . . and I beg of you to get yourself a 
few things when you are in town. If you are hard 
up . . . you might go to Selina in Sloane Street. She 
had hundreds out of me in the old days, so you need have 
no compunction in keeping her waiting a little.” 
Susannah did not answer at once. 

Perhaps it was the shadow cast by the half-drawn 
blinds, perhaps her imagination, but to her eyes her 
mother looked whiter, more wasted than she had ever 
looked before. 

“ Suppose I have a fancy for wanting to stay with 
you, mother,” she said when she spoke; the words 
were said half lightly, but they finished with a quick 
sigh. 

Mrs. Richland sighed too, but impatiently. 

181 


182 SUSANNAH 

Sarah Thrale had left them alone together, after 
having been most graciously received by Celia Rich- 
land, and was now being escorted with due care about 
the garden by Benson. 

“ If you really care to please me. Sue, you will do as 
I tell you. I confess,” said Mrs. Richland, as she 
brushed her hair back from her brow (Susannah had 
caught the trick), “ that I never hoped for anything so 
satisfactory as this coming to you; at least not since 
we have been buried in this forsaken hole. ... If you 
had only told me that you had met young Thrale, and 
that he was paying you attention, you would have made 
a considerable difference to my life of late. But I am 
not blaming you,” Mrs. Richland added quickly — she 
misunderstood the way in which Susannah turned 
sharply round so that her face was averted. ‘‘ I know 
I have never encouraged you to make any confidences, 
and I am really only too glad to know that there is 
such a change in your prospects, to bother about any- 
thing else.” 

Susannah said nothing immediately, then she startled 
her mother by going swiftly across the room, and kneel- 
ing by the long chair. 

Oh, darling, do let me stay,” she said with a break 
in her voice. “ I want to be with you. Don’t you care 
to have me.? . . . Don’t you sometimes want me 
with you, mother.? . . . There ... is ... a mis- 
take. ... I can’t explain everything just yet, but 
I . . .” 

Mrs. Richland looked at her with a quick frown; she 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 183 

felt uneasy. The situation required prompt and tact- 
ful treatment. 

“ Don’t be emotional, Sue,” she said coldly ; “ you 
know you are talking nonsense. Please get up! Mrs. 
Thrale may come back. Now, just look at your eyes,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Richland fretfully. “ Really, you are 
very trying. Sue ! . . . One would think that you would 
understand for yourself what a splendid chance this is.” 
Then Mrs. Richland put out her hand. ‘‘ Call Sophie,” 
she said feebly; ‘‘don’t stay, . . . send Sophie . . . 
at once, please.” 

Half an hour later the carriage started for the return 
drive for the Bourne. 

Susannah sat and looked at the blinds of her mother’s 
room as the horses mounted the rough incline to the 
gate. 

She was as white as if she, too, had passed through 
a sharp attack of bodily suffering. 

Mrs. Thrale was very tender to her. 

“ It must be a great consolation to feel that your 
mother has such an intelligent and faithful person 
about her, dear child,” she said, as Benson stood in the 
doorway and watched them go, after having delivered 
a message from her mistress to Miss Susannah. 

Susannah laughed bitterly. 

She was still writhing inwardly from the poison of 
Benson’s speech, from the insinuation that she had 
wantonly agitated her mother; that this attack of suf- 
fering had been caused by her entirely. 

“ That faithful and intelligent person has robbed me 


184 SUSANNAH 

of my sweetest right, the right to serve my mother, 
. . . to draw a little nearer to her! Yet ” — Susannah 
calmed herself suddenly — “ Benson must not be alto- 
gether blamed. . . . Somehow . . . though I have 
loved her better than my life, I have never been able 
to reach my mother’s heart I ” 

Sarah Thrale said nothing in words, but she stretched 
out her hand, and she laid it upon the girl’s hot, trem- 
bling one; and so they drove on, and gradually the 
pain and the bitterness faded, and Susannah, looking 
down, saw that hand lying on hers, and her heart 
softened. 

“ And perhaps even when she knows all she will not 
change,” she said to herself. 

When they reached the Bourne they found a slight 
confusion prevailing. Lady Corneston was just on the 
eve of leaving. She had received a telegram from her 
husband ; he had met with a slight accident, and Emma 
was rushing off with due wifely anxiety to join him. 

By a fortunate chance young Danecourt happened 
to be obliged to travel in the same direction ; he had a 
radiant, half-conscious look as he stood and watched 
Lady Comeston’s numerous trunks carried out to the 
station omnibus. 

Adrian Thrale had left quite early in the day, and 
others had followed, and Mr. Harraday was openly 
deploring the break-up of the house party. 

There was no time for confidences between Susannah 
and her sister; indeed. Lady Corneston only spoke of 
Tora, and that in a hurried way. 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 185 

“ If you want nurse back, you can telegraph for 
her,” she said, as she fluttered down the steps and got 
into the carriage. 

The evening was very tranquil. 

Mrs. Harraday pretended a headache, and did not 
make an appearance. There was really no need to 
dress and play pretty to an old woman and a stupid 
girl ! 

Mr. Harraday pleaded for some more songs after 
dinner, but Susannah could not sing. 

She felt nervous, and sad, and strangely oppressed, 
as with a sense of definite loss. 

Naturally her visit to her mother had troubled and 
disturbed her ; but after dinner, as she left Mrs. Thrale 
and Mr. Harraday chatting together, and stood alone 
on the terrace in the moonlight, she was not thinking 
of her mother. 

She was calling back to her remembrance the kindness, 
the exquisite tact, the almost tender care that Adrian 
Thrale had shown her. 

More than once she sighed. 

It was almost painful to hear herself associated 
with him so closely, so intimately, at every turn, 
and to realize that perhaps they might never meet 
again ! 

She had experienced quite a sharp sensation of regret 
when she had gone down to breakfast that morning 
and Mr. Harraday had told her that Adrian had gone 
(conveying the information in a way that suggested 
that she must have probably said farewell to the 


186 SUSANNAH 

young man unseen by others), and that he was not 
returning. 

Susannah had carried down with her Adrian’s ring 
and his watch-chain, which with difficulty she had man- 
aged to unfasten from about her throat, and now, alone 
in the moonlight, she remembered with a blush this 
tangible link between them. 

‘‘ If I cannot give them back to him, I must give 
them to Mrs. Thrale, when she knows all.” 

Before she went to rest that night, Susannah wrote 
a letter. 

She had had a quiet little chat in Mrs. Thrale’s room, 
and this letter was the outcome of the older woman’s 
advice. 

“ I quite understand the position now, dear child,” 
Sarah Thrale had said. “ Of course I only judged 
your mother’s attendant by her manner and appear- 
ance ; to know people well, one must live with them. If 
you feel that this woman will not keep you posted in 
your mother’s news, and I can see you are fretting about 
your mother, just drop a line to Richard Calvert. . . . 
Tell him you are going to stay at the sea with me for 
awhile, and ask him to write and give you his opinion 
about Mrs. Richland now and then. He will do it 
gladly, I am sure. . . .” 

And the suggestion gave Susannah much real com- 
fort. 

She wrote naturally and easily to Calvert. 

A bond of comprehensive sympathy seemed suddenly 
to have been knit between them. It was very consoling 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 187 

to Susannah to realize that Calvert would be seeing her 
mother nearly every day ; that she would know all that 
was passing at the farm. 

That night she slept well for the first time since she 
had stayed at the Bourne. * 

For safety she had slipped the old ring and the watch- 
chain under her pillow. 


XII 


“Qu’il est doux d’etre au monde, et quel bien que la vie!” — 
Alfred de Musset. 

S usannah waited. 

Every day when she saw the post arrive she 
prepared herself to hear that Adrian had written ; 
she began to long for the letter to come that should 
set the wrong right. She had drawn very near to 
Sarah Thrale in these days. The old woman, the girl, 
and the child seemed absolutely happy. About Tora’s 
happiness there was no manner of doubt. In all the 
days of her four and a half years’ existence Tora had 
never known such a glorious time. The absence of 
nurse was not the smallest of the charms that studded 
her days of joy. 

Susannah had not been to the seaside since she had 
been about Tora’s age, and she found a wonderful 
amount of enjoyment in keeping the child company; 
she even attempted a donkey-ride — once. 

But the knowledge of her false position rankled. 

The closer the sympathy, the deeper the tender tie 
between herself and Sarah Thrale, the more she fretted 
at the deceit. And it never entered into her head to 
imagine that Sarah Thrale was fretting on her side, 
though if Susannah had pondered carefully the various 
188 


CHAPTER TWELVE 189 

points of the situation, she would have assuredly re- 
marked that Mrs. Thrale was strangely reticent, that 
she never asked awkward questions, never seemed sur- 
prised that Adrian did not come to see them (they 
were barely more than an hour and a half from town), 
and made no comment on the fact that Susannah never 
received a letter from him. On the contrary, she spoke 
frequently about Calvert’s letters, those curt epistles 
written in a stiff, uncompromising handwriting, which 
merely gave a report of Mrs. Richland’s health. 

No ! Sarah Thrale never once appeared to remark 
that these little details, which are generally supposed 
to be the outward and visible signs of a sentimental 
attachment, were so conspicuous by their absence. 

If she had questioned, or seemed suspicious that 
everything was not as it should be, she would have 
hastened the girl’s impulse to speak herself. 

For there was really no longer need for the 
hypocrisy. 

Emma and her husband were together at Harrogate, 
whither Sir Edmund’s doctors had sent him for a course 
of treatment after his accident; and from occasional 
letters which came from Tora’s father, the domestic life 
of Sir Edmund and Lady Comeston appeared to be 
on a much pleasanter footing than it had been for some 
years past. 

The cause, therefore, that had brought about this 
deception having been safeguarded, there was nothing 
except a sympathetic consideration for the little old 
woman, whom she had grown to love so tenderly, that 


190 SUSANNAH 

stood between Susannah and a declaration of the truth ; 
and at times, even though she cared so much, and drew 
such consolation from the knowledge that she was now 
loved wholly for herself, that longing to stand un- 
abashed in the light was well-nigh unconquerable. 

She knew that Adrian wrote from time to time to his 
aunt; for of course Mrs. Thrale chatted freely about 
the young man. 

Apparently he had not stayed very long in Norfolk. 
He was back in town again, going now every day 
to the office. “ Beginning at the beginning,” as he put 
it himself in one of his letters. 

The mere fact that he was making no effort what- 
ever to set matters right, that he seemed absolutely 
content to let them drift on indefinitely, made Susannah 
at times feel horribly ashamed of her own silence, some- 
times sent the blood rushing into her cheeks fiercely ; and 
yet, when this mood had passed, there was left a 
strangely pleasant sensation in the conviction that their 
mutual silence arose from the same reason, a desire to 
keep Sarah Thrale in happy ignorance just a little 
longer. 

Now and then, indeed, the girl had tried to lead the 
subject round to the point of a confidence, but, some- 
how or other, Mrs. Thrale always managed to check 
this confidence. As a matter of fact, every phase of 
the girl’s heart was legible to the old woman. She 
knew, when they had been only a few days together, that 
there was some big mistake, that the romance which was 
so sweet to her existed only in her imagination, that no 


CHAPTER TWELVE 191 

two people were more widely apart than these two who 
were supposed to be promised in marriage to one 
another. 

It was immaterial to her why this should be, or for 
what reason it had been brought about; the fact in 
itself was sufficiently explanatory, sufficiently disap- 
pointing. 

Yet she insisted upon playing her part, just as 
though all was running smoothly, and on the most 
conventional lines. 

She wrote long, chatty letters to Adrian, full of Su- 
sannah and her doings, and she pretended to him as she 
pretended to the girl, that she saw nothing unusual in 
their attitude one to another. 

They arranged to stay at the sea till the end of 
September, and after that Susannah determined that 
she must return to the farm, but Mrs. Thrale protested 
eagerly. 

“ You must come back with me to town,” she said, 
“ if only for a week. I shall feel that there is a 
sweeter element in my old house after you have passed 
through the rooms. It is such a big house, and so 
lonely, Susannah.” 

“ It can only be for one week,” said Susannah. 

Like Tora, she began to dread the end of the visit 
to the sea. Here it was possible to drift a little longer, 
even to enjoy the drifting in certain moods, but any 
deliberated movement must mean that a decisive action 
must be taken, if not by the one who had promised to 
do this, then by herself. 


192 SUSANNAH 

Tora really permitted her very little time for close 
thought ; when they were not crab-hunting, or paddling, 
or building huge sand castles, they were listening to 
the niggers, or watching the boys fish from the end of 
the pier. 

“Why doesn’t Nonie come.?” the child would some- 
times ask impatiently — a question which Susannah 
found difficult to answer, and rather dreaded hearing. 
One afternoon Tora went to play and have tea with 
some other children in the hotel. 

“ And I hope you will rest for once,” said Sarah 
Thrale, who always sat in the balcony with her knitting 
and her books, where she could see the world working 
and playing below. 

Susannah laughed. 

“ Ever since I have been here,” she said, “ I have 
promised myself that I would go out and sit on that 
farthest rock, when the tide was low. I think this is 
my opportunity; . . . but I will be back for tea.” 

“ Don’t hurry,” said Mrs. Thrale. 

Susannah passed through the crowds on the beach, 
and went across the warm, wet sand, leaving a straight 
line of small footprints behind her, and when she got out 
among the rocks, she had them practically to herself. 

It was a ticklish work getting a foothold on the 
gleaming, bright-green sea-moss, but when she slipped 
she only laughed, and each time she laughed she felt 
more heart-free. 

When she reached the very last bit of rock, she sat 
down and rested after her labours. 


CHAPTER TWELVE 193 

After that she would have found it difficult to say 
what she thought about. She simply sat and dreamed, 
with her hat off and her feet planted firmly on a neigh- 
bouring bit of rock for safety. 

Sometimes some one invaded her solitude, bent on 
searching for some trivial treasures of the sea-washed 
shore, and once a stalwart fisherman went slowly in 
front of her, pushing the wide-mouthed shrimping net 
before him as she had seen a man ploughing by hand 
in the fields at times; but after a time she had the 
rocks to herself. 

The sun had begun to sink, but Susannah never 
realized this; only now and then she shifted her posi- 
tion, as she felt cramped with so much sitting. 

The world seemed to have no existence as she gazed 
out over the measureless expanse of waters, with the 
tiny, white-winged boats dotted here and there, as it 
were, on the horizon itself, and glinting with the golden 
warmth of the setting sun as the wind shifted them 
about. 

Suddenly she was awakened out of her dreams. 
Some one called from behind, breaking into the rhyth- 
mical murmuring of the waves. She looked round and 
about her in a startled fashion, and then her heart went 
up into her throat, and she blushed hotly. 

Adrian stood just a little way from her with one hand 
poised on his hip. As she turned he took off his hat 
and smiled. His tall, supple figure, his clear, strong 
voice, the gleam of his perfect teeth, and the bright, 
mischievous eyes, seemed to give the touch of completion 


194 SUSANNAH 

to that vague, delicious sense of the beauty of life that 
had swayed her in this last hour. 

“ Is there any room there? ” he called. 

Susannah found her voice with an effort. 

“ Plenty of room.” 

As he began to approach nearer she tried to school 
herself to be calm and conventional, and to evince 
neither surprise nor pleasure at this unexpected appari- 
tion. 

When he was quite near she looked up and laughed. 
The mysterious shadows of the sea seemed to have 
passed into her eyes! they were grey, and blue, and 
green, and wholly lovely in this moment. 

“ I will abdicate,” she said ; “ it is really quite a com- 
fortable throne, and I promised to be back for tea.” 

“ Tea ? ” echoed Adrian. “ Supper, you mean ! 

'' Here on this delightful desert rock I expect you have 
lost all count of time.” He had reached her side by 
this time, and, stooping, stretched out his hand. “ How 
d’ye do ? ” he asked. 

Susannah gave him her hand, which he shook slightly 
and released. 

‘‘ Quite well. . . . And you ? ” 

“Oh, I’m awfully fit, thanks,” Adrian said; but he 
wriggled a good deal, the footing was so slippery, and 
she had to laugh again. 

“ 1 have nothing to spoil,” she observed demurely, 
“ but your clothes are more precious. ... I advise you 
not to sit down 1 ” 

“ Where is the independent Englishman who does not 


CHAPTER TWELVE 195 

scorn advice? ” demanded Adrian. “ Behold me sit- 
ting ! ” 

Susannah turned and looked at the sea. 

This breezy semi-familiar greeting over, there was 
time for the nervousness to return, for remembrance to 
oust the influence of dreams. 

Adrian took off his hat, and inhaled the ozone with 
audible pleasure. 

“ And to think that I have scorned the joys of the 
seaside so deliberately all these years. What bats we 
are, always preferring the night gloom of life! I 
don’t believe I have sat on a wet rock since I was 
Tora’s age. Now I must take all the health I can, for 
I am off again in an hour’s time.” 

“ Have you seen your aunt ? ” Susannah asked. Her 
voice had grown thinly pitched and nervous. 

Adrian nodded. 

“Oh yes; ... we have had quite a confabulation 
sitting on the balcony. She told me where you had 
gone, and I fixed you through the field-glasses. You 
looked such a little dot! . . . And it seemed from 
the distance as if each wave that came must wash 
you away. So I thought I would rush to the res- 
cue.” 

“ And, you see . . .” said Susannah, “ the waves are 
quite a long way oflP.” 

Adrian was taking stock of her while she sat appar- 
ently engrossed in the movements of one of the fishing- 
smacks. He saw how restless she had become, and how 
her colour fluctuated. 


196 SUSANNAH 

‘‘ I did not say anything to Aunt Sarah — I mean 
about ourselves,” he observed suddenly. 

Susannah crimsoned, seemed as though she would 
say something, and then remained silent. 

“ And I came down on purpose to do it too,” said 
Adrian. “ But, well ! somehow I really had not the 
heart to upset her! Dear old soul! She is having a 
kind of Indian summer of happiness. I believe I am 
the least bit jealous of you,” he said with a laugh, 
“ for you seem to have crept into her heart of hearts.” 

“ I wish you had spoken,” said Susannah unsteadily. 

How silly it was of her to get so hot ! Why, even 
her hands were trembling. 

“ Well, I am going to tell you something,” said 
Adrian. “ I have suddenly determined that I don’t 
intend to speak . . . ever ! ” 

Susannah’s face was averted. 

“You . . . you might write,” she suggested. 

Something in the tone of her voice made Adrian feel 
as if he were seeing sunshine for the first time in his 
life. 

“ I am sorry,” he said quite coolly, “ but I cannot 
promise. The fact is,” he said confidentially, “ I have 
been trying to write every day since I last saw you. 
Each day when I got to the office I took out a nice 
large sheet of paper and commenced my letter, but I 
never could make headway with it somehow. And I’ll 
tell you why,” he said suddenly, so that he startled 
Susannah and made her heart beat quickly, “ because 
when I began to set myself the task of telling Aunt 


CHAPTER TWELVE 197 

Sarah that I was nothing to you, I found that fairly 
easy, but when I tried to write ‘ She is nothing to me,’ 
I could not get the pen to go. Because you are some- 
thing to me, Susannah,” he said soberly, so gravely 
that her lips quivered unconsciously, and she suddenly 
saw the sea in a mist — “ something that has never come 
into my life before. Fate threw you into my path by 
crooked ways, as it were, but already I have commenced 
to straighten out the crooked ways, and I can’t throw 
you back to fate. ... I really can’t, unless you say 
I must. . . . Please don’t say I must, Susannah! 
Won’t you let me be your friend, like Dick Calvert.? I 
am tremendously jealous of Dick; . . . you seem to 
think such a lot of him . . .” He broke off and 
scrambled to his feet. “ But it is getting late ; we must 
go ; you have been sitting here quite long enough.” 

She put her hand in his and let him draw her up. 

“ Shall it be friendship.? ” Adrian asked in a whisper, 
as they stood for an instant very close to one another, 
with the water lapping and rushing about the rocks on 
which they stood. 

“ Yes,” said Susannah ; but,” she added very hur- 
riedly, “ it must be the truth too.” 

“ Later it shall be the truth,” said Adrian. “ I 
promise you.” 

He stooped and kissed both her hands — they were 
cold now, but still they trembled ; and then, keeping one 
in his, he began to pilot her back over the wet rocks. 
The journey was full of adventures, and they laughed 
heartily as they went. Even once, when she almost 


198 SUSANNAH 

slipped, and he caught her and held her in his arms 
protectingly, they still laughed; and when they got to 
the sand, and he proposed a race, they ran like two 
children till they reached the beach. 

That night, after he had gone, Susannah felt that 
she could meet the gaze of Mrs. Thrale’s eyes almost 
easily. Half the burden slipped from her, and the 
days went by radiated by a light which made even the 
ordinary details of life wear a golden look. 

Tora, happily, had struck up a friendship with some 
of the children in the hotel, and Susannah had more 
time for dreams. 

“ Do give me something to do ! ” she said once, wak- 
ing with sudden contrition to the fact that dreams were 
slightly selfish if delicious. “ Do you know, I do 
nothing all day long? ” 

“ There is a time for everything,” the old woman 
answered her tenderly. “ Be idle now a little while 
longer . . 

Since Adrian’s flying visit there had come a letter 
every day for Miss Richland. 

Delightful little letters they were; open to be read 
by all the world, yet carrying, too, a suggestion of 
confidence, of sympathy that was all the sweeter be- 
cause it was not translated into words. 

By the time the day for departure came, there was 
quite a little packet of these letters. Susannah pre- 
tended to herself at odd moments that she had no idea 
why she kept them. But we all make pretence with our- 
selves at times! 


CHAPTER TWELVE 199 

Tora wept and refused to be comforted as they drove 
away from the hotel, from the beach, and the sands 
beyond the beach. 

“ Oh, I don’t want London ! ” she said, as she hid her 
face on Susannah’s shoulder. “Who wants London 
It is a nasty, nasty place; I have had very nearly 
enough of it ! ” 

She slumbered all the way to town, and Mrs. Thrale 
seemed to doze ; but every now and then she would open 
her eyes and look at Susannah. 

“ I am like a child,” she said once, “ counting the 
days till you go. This day week you will leave me.” 

“ But I will come back,” said Susannah, “ if you 
want me. Perhaps,” she said with a little catch in her 
voice, “ you may not want me.” 

“ I shall always want you,” said Sarah Thrale ; and 
there seemed to be something said and understood be- 
tween them in those few words. 

Tora was to stay one night in London, and to travel 
to the country with her new nurse on the morrow. 

When they reached London, and had passed into the 
old-fashioned hall, the butler gave his mistress a note. 

“From Nonie,” the old lady said; and she smiled 
with seeming confidence at the girl. “ He will be here 
to dinner.” 

After that Susannah had very little time to herself 
to think coherently. 

Tora was fretful; the change of the air, the crowded 
streets, and the fatigue of the journey had upset the 
little person. 


200 SUSANNAH 

When Mrs. Thrale looked into the child’s room on 
her way down to the drawing-room, Susannah was still 
sitting by the bed whispering softly. She had not 
changed her dress. 

“ Don’t hurry,” said Sarah Thrale softly ; “ Nonie 
hasn’t come yet. I told them that we would have dinner 
rather late.” 

When at last she had seen Tora’s eyes close in slum- 
ber, and when she could draw away her hand from the 
little restless one, Susannah slipped to her room. 

Her box had been unpacked, and she picked up the 
first gown she came across — a spotted muslin — with 
which she wore an old-fashioned fichu. 

All the time she was dressing her heart was giving 
little leaps, and, when she stood once and looked at her- 
self in the glass, she saw that she was smiling, that there 
was an inexpressible radiance in her grey eyes; and 
she knew what had brought this, knew it, and blushed, 
and paled, and blushed again. 

“ I am awfully silly,” she said to herself. But still 
the knowledge of her folly could not drive from her a 
sense of delicious anticipation. 

She went very slowly down the stairs till she reached 
the drawing-room door. 

The house was dimly lit. Everything in it was old- 
fashioned, not picturesque; all the appointments were 
of that solid, comfortable order which prevailed about 
fifty or sixty years ago. 

Emma Corneston had once described the house as a 
“ howling wilderness of unmitigated hideousness,” but 


CHAPTER TWELVE 201 

Susannah saw nothing ugly in it. Time had mellowed 
everything. The servants seemed to match the house, 
and Susannah could understand so well, now that she 
was in it, why it was that Sarah Thrale cared best to 
live in the place that had been her home for so many 
years. 

When she passed into the drawing-room Susannah 
found no one to greet her. 

The evening was chilly, so a fire had been lit in both 
of the large rooms. 

She went and stood in front of the fire in the inner 
room, and then she looked round with her heart in her 
throat as Adrian advanced out of the shadows. 

“Oh, you frightened me!” she said. “I did not 
know anybody was here.” 

“ I brought Aunt Sarah rather an important docu- 
ment from the City; she has gone to her room to sign 
some papers.” 

Adrian stood with his arm on the mantelshelf, and 
looked at her. As she had passed into the room she 
had seemed like some wraith of the bygone ages in her 
quaint simple garb; there was a touch of the spirit 
about her now ; her beauty was elusive, but the spell of 
it was amazingly potent. Or was it the white loveliness 
of her nature that held him.^* 

Physical charm he knew in various grades; he had 
loved much, and often. For Susannah he had a new 
love. She was so delicate in her simplicity, she awak- 
ened desires veiled about with poetry. Nevertheless, she 
was no spirit; she was very human. To feel her so 


202 SUSANNAH 

near, to know that he could stretch out his hand and 
touch hers, was very sweet, but also very disturbing. 

“ I am sorry I came too late to see Tora,” he said 
when he spoke. 

Susannah had stood magnetized, as it were, by the 
intensity of his gaze. She started as he spoke, and 
then hurriedly, shyly, she produced from the pocket of 
her gown his watch-chain and the old diamond ring. 

“ I want to give these back to you ; . . . you went 
away so quickly from the hotel that evening,” she said, 
“ I had no time then.” 

Adrian took the chain. 

“ Won’t you keep them.? ”‘he asked. I have missed 
them, but it has been so delightful to know that you had 
something of mine . . . that there was a small link 
between us. . . . Just as a bond of our friendship, 
please take these things back, Susannah. . . .” 

She hesitated only an instant, and then stretched out 
her hand. 

“ I will keep them till . . . you . . . have spoken 
to Mrs. Thrale,” she said. 

“And afterwards.?” Adrian came nearer, and took 
the chain from her fingers again. “ I am going to put 
it on as I put it on once before. . . . May I? ” 

But his hands trembled, . . . the touch of her soft 
skin was so exquisite. ... It seemed almost impossible 
to link the ends together. Happily Mrs. Thr ale’s slow 
step was heard at that moment, and when she came in 
she undertook the task. Susannah had to kneel down 
to let the old woman’s hands make the chain secure; 


CHAPTER TWELVE 203 

and after that dinner was announced, and Adrian gave 
his arm to his aunt. Susannah followed them, and the 
diamond in the old ring slung about her neck flashed 
and gave forth a hundred sparkles of fire and colour as 
she moved down the stairs, just as though it understood 
and was very glad ! 


XIII 


“Just in the hush before the dawn 
A little wistful wind is born, 

A little chilly errant breeze, 

That thriUs the grasses, stirs the trees; 
And as it wanders on its way. 

While yet the night is cool and dark. 
Ere the first carol of the lark. 

Its plaintive murmur seems to say, 

‘ I wait the sorrows of the day.* ’* 


— India’s Love Lyrics. 



^HEY were halfway through dinner when there 


came a loud peal at the bell, and, as the old 


JL butler hurried out, they heard the sound 
of a pretty voice in the hall, and the rustle of silken 


skirts. 


The next moment the butler had announced “ Lady 
Corneston.” 

It gave Emma a moment of supreme satisfaction to 
remark the various expressions with which she was 
greeted. 

Adrian frowned, Mrs. Thrale looked doubtful, and 
Susannah turned quite white. 

‘‘ Dear people,” said Emma, “ do forgive me, but as 
I am all alone in London, I thought I might pop in 
here and spend an hour with you.” 


204 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN W5 

She bent over Mrs. Thrale and kissed her, and then 
she kissed Susannah. 

To Adrian she merely waved her hand. 

“ Thanks, no ; I have dined,” she said ; “ but 

if I may I will sit here with you, and watch you all 
enjoy yourselves.” 

She was looking quite lovely in a tea-gown of black 
garnished with jet; several strings of pearls were slung 
about her throat. 

“ The fact is,” she explained, “ Edmund got nervous 
at the last moment about the child travelling down alone 
with a strange nurse to-morrow, so, as he is still a little 
lame, I suggested that I should run up to town, stay 
the night, and take Tora back myself to-morrow. So 
now you see why I am here ! How well you look, Susan- 
nah ! quite sunburnt. When I heard that you had gone 
away for two or three weeks I was so pleased. And how 
are you, Nonie.? ” 

While she chattered on, Emma’s eyes were very busy. 
She was quick to grasp the meaning of the girl’s soft, 
shy look; it did not need the sight of the watch-chain 
and the ring suspended about Susannah’s throat to let 
her see whither matters were drifting. The knowledge 
awoke a savage rush of hot jealousy and bitter anger, 
but she found real delight in the fact that she had made 
Adrian both cross and uncomfortable. Adrian was 
decidedly vexed and uncomfortable; he was utterly un- 
prepared for this appearance. 

Only a few hours before Emma and he had met. The 
interview had been forced upon him unexpectedly by 


206 SUSANNAH 

Lady Corneston, who drove down to the City and 
startled the sedate old business house by her radiant 
appearance. 

Adrian was hard at work when his clerk had brought 
him Lady Corneston’s name. 

His first impulse had been to deny himself to her, 
but he quickly saw the futility of this. 

So Emma had been admitted. 

Her excuse for seeking him had been to pretend 
regret for what she had done, and to ask him to make 
friends with her again. In reality it was to satisfy 
herself as to what was passing. But the visit was dis- 
appointing. 

Adrian as a moralist she already knew, but Adrian as 
a working man was a novelty. 

He chilled her by his quiet, business-like ways, and it 
was distinctly an outrage on social manners. Lady 
Corneston considered, that every other moment some 
one should come in and interrupt them, or that the tele- 
phone should be permitted to claim his attention when 
she was there. It was all so unlike what she had ar- 
ranged in her own mind. She had prepared herself for 
a charming scene of reconciliation. 

Not for an instant had Emma accepted Adrian’s out- 
burst of contempt and anger as being genuine or last- 
ing ; not even though the various letters she had written 
him, after she had joined her husband (such charming 
letters!) had never even been acknowledged. She had 
resolutely, too, set herself to suppress an uneasy feeling 
(suggested by Mrs. Harraday in the first place) that 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 20T 

what she had started so lightly, so wholly in her own 
interest, might terminate in real earnest. Naturally 
Emma had no intention of letting Susannah marry 
Adrian Thrale. 

Most assuredly not! 

Despite the very unsatisfactory nature of her visit 
to the office. Lady Corneston would have been very glad 
to prolong it. Town was dull, and it was not pleasant 
to find herself denied a self-promised amusement. She 
had quite settled in her own mind that Adrian’s bad 
temper would all be over by this time, and that her 
plea for forgiveness would be followed by a thorough 
understanding; perhaps by a delightful little Ute-a-tHe 
dinner. As Adrian was supposed to be her prospective 
brother-in-law, they could of course dine together quite 
comfortably. This delightful little dinner was, how- 
ever, not destined to be a fact. 

From Sir Edmund and from many of her acquaint- 
ances, Emma had heard that Adrian Thrale had said 
good-bye to his old profession as a “ flaneur,” but she 
did not realize till she saw him in his office how far away 
he had set himself from all those things which had for- 
merly seemed so desirable to him, and which constituted 
life to her. 

She was in a downright bad temper when she left him ; 
it was a new and a humiliating experience to Emma 
Corneston to find herself regarded with such absolute 
indifference. 

When she sat at Sarah Thrale’s dinner-table a few 
hours later she felt a trifle better, and when Adrian, 


208 SUSANNAH 

making an excuse, rose and went away almost directly 
after dinner, Lady Corneston laughed to herself. 
Afterwards, under the pretence of wanting to look at 
Tora when she was asleep, she managed to evade too 
much of Sarah Thrale’s society. The part the old 
woman was playing in the affairs of the moment by no 
means endeared her to Emma. 

The new nurse was fascinated beyond description by 
the sight of Tora’s mother as she crept softly into the 
darkened room and bent over her child. 

Emma was wearing a particularly angelic look. 

She spoke so sweetly to the nurse, and as she and 
Susannah went away she expressed great satisfaction 
with the woman’s appearance. 

“ Show me where you sleep,” she said to Susannah. 
“ Is not this a hideous barn of a house.? I can’t think 
why she doesn’t have it done up. A few clean papers 
would at least make it more civilized.” 

Susannah envied her sister her ease of manner. 

She tried to reciprocate Emma’s affectionate atti- 
tude; but, though Lady Corneston slipped her hand 
through her sister’s arm, and chatted so happily, it 
seemed to Susannah as if something cold and dark sep- 
arated them inexorably. 

‘‘ This is my room,” she said, as she opened the door. 

Lady Corneston advanced into the room, and shivered 
as she looked about her. 

“ Oh, I should be too utterly frightened to sleep 
here ! ” she said in her childlike way. Look at the 
shadows in those corners ! If there are no ghosts there 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 209 

must be any amount of mice, and I scream if I only 
hear a mouse. . . . But it looks a cosy bed,” chattered 
on Emma, “ and she does give you a fire. ... I always 
thought that even the coals were counted in this house ! 
How long are you going to stay. Sue dear.^^ ” 

“ I am going back to the farm next week,” said 
Susannah. 

She had turned up the light, and Lady Corneston 
approached the table and looked appreciatively at 
herself in the mirror for a moment. Then suddenly 
Emma turned and touched the chain around Susannah’s 
throat. 

“ So you have not given that back yet ! ” she said, 
and she laughed. “Dear little Sue! ... You see, I 
told you it would all be so easy, didn’t Now con- 
fess! . . . did you not make yourself very unhappj^ 
without any need for doing it.^ . . . If you had only 
known how charming Nonie is ... it would not have 
seemed half so dreadful to you, would it.? ” 

Susannah felt cold and hot, and then suddenly tired 
and depressed. 

“ What a lovely gown, Emma ! ” she said. “ And 
surely you have some more pearls.? ” 

Emma looked at the mirror again. 

“ Edmund gave me a new string last week. They 
are beautiful, aren’t they.? By the way. Sue, that 
reminds me. ... I wish you would ask mother about 
my brooch when you go back. ... I lent it to her to 
get some money on it for the Leger; but, of course, 

I don’t want to lose it. I am awfully fond of that 


210 SUSANNAH 

brooch, and I used always to wear it. It was one of 
the first things that Nonie gave me.” 

There was a silence and a pause. 

That chain about Susannah’s throat seemed to be 
made of fire. 

“Shall we go down now?” she asked faintly, and 
she put up her hand to lower the gas. 

“No; wait a moment. . . .” 

Lady Corneston laid her hand on Susannah’s arm. 

“ Sue,” she said hurriedly, “ I have something to say 
to you. ... I never meant to tell you, . . . but I 
must ! ... I see that Nonie means to play with you as 
... as ... he has played with so many others, and 
I can’t let him do this with you. ... It is not only that 
I brought you together, but even if you were not my 
sister, I should have to speak as . . 

Susannah found her voice. 

“ I don’t want to listen, Emma,” she broke in 
half passionately. “ Oh, please don’t tell me any- 
thing ! ” 

“ I must,” Lady Corneston answered determinately. 
“ If I had not seen you wearing that,” she went on in 
a low voice, “ and if I had not seen Adrian here to- 
night ... I would never have told you; but I must! 

. . . Sue ... I must! It is . . . not right. . . .” 
Emma was fingering her pearls restlessly ; her eyes were 
downcast. “ When I told you about Edmund’s letter 
that day I . . . deceived you. Sue,” she whispered. “ I 
made you believe that there had been nothing between 
Nonie and me.. ... It was not true I . . . He . . .” 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 211 

“ Oh, don’t ! ” said Susannah, hoarsely this time ; 
“ please, please don’t ! . . .” 

She moved away, and went to stand by the fire, and 
then she stooped and stirred the coals into a blaze. 

“ What time did you say you wanted Tora to be 
ready for you.^^ ” she asked in her normal voice almost 
immediately. 

“ Oh, about eleven o’clock, I suppose,” said Lady 
Comeston hurriedly. She was rather frightened. 
“ The train goes at eleven thirty-five from Euston, so 
eleven will be ample time to leave here. Do you know. 
Sue, I am afraid I shan’t be able to stay any longer. 
I hope the old lady won’t be vexed; but you see it is 
getting rather late, and I know that Edmund would 
hate me to go back to the hotel too late by myself. 
Are you coming down ” 

She hurried to the door, catching up her glittering 
skirts as she went. 

“ Oh, I left my fan in Tora’s room,” she said, and 
she disappeared. 

Susannah stood by the fire with closed eyes, and her 
hands were clenched so tightly that the nails cut into 
the flesh. But as she heard the sound of Emma return- 
ing, she opened her eyes, and threw back her head with 
a kind of jerk. The sisters went down the stairs to- 
gether, but this time Lady Corneston did not slip her 
hand through Susannah’s arm. 

“ You should have brought your maid,” the girl said 
as they reached the drawing-room. 

It appeared, however, that Mrs. Thrale had given 


SIS SUSANNAH 

orders for her carriage to be made ready for Lady 
Corneston. 

“ It is really too sweet of you to have your horses 
out for me,” Emma declared; “ but oh! what I suffer in 
a hansom no one knows ! The one that brought me here 
to-night was too awful. . . . Every other six yards or 
so the horse jibbed or something and put back its ears, 
and had to be dragged on . . . and when I tried to get 
out, the driver was quite hurt with me . . . and he was 
so funny. ‘ You jest sit tight, miss,’ he said through 
the trap-door (imagine. Sue, he called me miss); ‘it 
ain’t nothing; . . . it’s on-y the lamp posties as she 
don’t fancy.’ You can guess what my nerves were like 
when I arrived here 1 ” 

“ What a pretty creature 1 ” said Sarah Thrale 
thoughtfully, when Emma had gone. “ I always think 
Emma is much too pretty for real life; I have a fancy 
to keep her in a glass case, where she could be looked 
at and not touched. She would make an admirable 
specimen for a collection of butterflies. . . . Placed 
well in the centre, with her wings spread to show all 
their colours, and with a nice pin through her body, she 
would be secure from mischief. The only difficulty,” 
added the old woman, looking up from her knitting with 
a dry smile, “ would be to pin her . . . even to a cork. 
Well, dearie, very, very tired I suppose I must not 
ask you for a song to-night.” 

“ I will play a little instead,” Susannah said. “ I am 
tired, but it is too early to go to bed.” 

The piano was in shadow. 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 213 

“ What shall it be ? ” she asked as she touched the 
keys. 

“ Brahms,” Mrs. Thrale said. She put down her 
knitting, and, leaning her head back, closed her eyes. 
After awhile she rose. . . . 

There was something in the music that stung her, 
roused her, hurt her, and made her weep unconsciously ; 
dimly she felt the girl needed to be left alone, so she 
went away. 

Susannah never realized that her listener was gone; 
she played till her arms ached, and yet the fire in her 
heart urged her on. 

Suddenly she looked across the big, empty room, and 
her trembling hands dropped into her lap. 

From out of the miserable chaos of her thoughts a 
picture visioned itself. 

She was standing in front of the fire, and Adrian 
was close behind her, placing the chain about her throat ; 
so close that his lips had almost brushed that white 
throat ; so close that she had felt his heart throb against 
her shoulder ; so close that she had almost rested against 
that heart. . . . 

Susannah got up; her face was convulsed. 

She walked aimlessly about the room. 

‘‘ Oh, God ! ” she said once, in a catching sort of 
way. The agony of the shame was well-nigh unendur- 
able ; the burden of that shame seemed to rest so wholly 
on her; and beyond the shame stretched the future, the 
dreary, the desolate, the starless future. “ Oh, God ! ” 
Susannah said hoarsely a second time. 


XIV 


“ Le ciel m’a confi6 ton coeur.” 

“Quand tu seras dans la douleur 
Viens k moi sans inquietude; 

Je te suiverai sur le chemin; 

Mais je ne puis toucher ta main. 

Ami, je suis la Solitude.” 

Alfred de Musset. 


T he day was bleak, almost wintry. 

As Susannah stood at the station door, she 
shivered and was glad she had put on her old 
golf cape ; it was much warmer than her serge coat. 

The wind came sweeping across the open country with 
untimely keenness. 

“ Beginnin’ early,” said the fat station-master; 
“ seems like ’twas only t’other day as we were broilin’. 
. . . There’s nothin’ to meet you, miss . . . leastwise 
it ain’t here yet awhiles.” 

And only then Susannah remembered that she had 
forgotten to telegraph and ask that the pony-trap 
should be sent to meet her on her arrival. 

She had had such a busy morning, helping to get 
Tora ready early in order that Lady Corneston should 
not be kept waiting, and then Emma had telegraphed, 
making some excuse, and asking that Tora might be 
sent direct to Euston, and join her there. 

214 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 215 

And Susannah had of course gone with the child, and 
before she had gone she had called Mrs. Thrale’s maid 
into her room. 

“ Marcher,” she said, “ I want you to give this note 
and this little parcel to Mrs. Thrale ; and. Marcher . . . 
you see I have packed my box, and will you please have 
it sent on to me.? ” 

“You’re not going with Miss Tora . . . are you, 
miss ? ” asked Marcher, fluttered and concerned. 

“ No,” said Susannah, “ I am going home. ... I 
am sorry to leave Mrs. Thrale so suddenly . . . but I 
am obliged to go. I won’t disturb her to say ‘ good- 
bye.’ I have written . . . everything in that letter.” 

“ I am sorry you’re going, miss,” said the maid, and 
she spoke with sincerity, “ it will be terrible lonesome 
for my mistress without you. . . . She’s so enjoyed 
having you, miss.” 

“ And she has given me such happiness,” said the 
girl. The smile she wore as she shook hands with 
Marcher was only a ghost of her usual smile. “ But 
we . . . shall see each other again very soon, ... I 
hope.” 

Mrs. Thrale was shut up in close business confabula- 
tion with one of the clerks from the office. During her 
absence from town a large amount of business had accu- 
mulated, and now claimed her immediate attention. 

She had said “ good-bye ” to Tora before retiring 
into her study. 

Susannah winced once or twice coming down in the 
train; she felt that she was acting so unkindly in termi- 


216 SUSANNAH 

Dating her visit so abruptly, but she saw no other path 
open to her. To have stayed and listened to Sarah 
Thrale’s entreaty (somehow Susannah felt there would 
be only sorrow, no anger for the deception which her 
letter would reveal) was beyond her entirely. Except 
for regret at leaving the old woman, there was nothing 
very definite in the girl’s mind. 

She felt tired and dull and horribly depressed, but 
that arose, no doubt, from the change in the weather. 

“ I wonder if Sophie has got in the coals,” Susannah 
said to herself as she paused half vaguely by the station 
door ; “ if not, I could order them now . . .” then she 
shrugged her shoulders. “ I can always send a post- 
card, and I had better not interfere. . . . Sophie will 
be disagreeable enough anyhow.” 

“ Won’t you bide awhile, miss . . . p’raps the trap’s 
late, and it’s a good stretch from here to Hemstone,” 
said the station-master, who wanted to go back and 
finish his dinner. 

But Susannah only smiled and shook her head; then 
turning, began resolutely to descend the hill and com- 
mence her long trudge homeward. 

She was glad to walk. 

“ I have been so abominably lazy lately . . . just 
a little more of that luxurious life, and I should be no 
use whatever ! ” she said to herself. 

But the road was dreary. 

Susannah was always sad when autumn came, but the 
sense of desolation that the chill grey tones produced 
on her had never been so oppressive, so moving as now. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 217 

Though she walked briskly, she could not shake off 
a chilled feeling ; she could not awaken that exhilaration 
which as a rule came to her when she was walking alone 
in the country. 

Dead leaves were everywhere. She trod on them, and 
the wind made others skim and dance about her. Now 
and then some were blown up against her face, and 
stung her with their sharp, shrivelled edges. 

In the train Susannah had said to herself, “ Now 
everything is done . . . and I am not going to think 
about it any more ! ... It was a mad and a miserable 
business, and the sooner it is forgotten the better. . . . 
If I had not been contemptibly weak and stupid I 
should have ended it long ago. . . . Why on earth 
I waited for some one else to speak I don’t under- 
stand.” 

Here out in the road, looking at the hop-fields, which 
had a deserted, untidy air, and bore evidence in many 
a rag and stray paper of the crowd of busy workers 
that had flocked from far and near to join in the “ hop- 
ping,” Susannah wondered if she would ever be able to 
forget. 

She had been so completely uprooted that bygone 
day when Emma had sought her out so deliberately that 
she felt rather like one of these feeble leaves so rudely 
detached, so roughly blown, so utterly at the sport of 
the wind. 

Long before she reached the gate beyond which lay 
that rough, sloping path that led to her home, she was 
wearied; she could hardly drag one foot after the other, 


218 SUSANNAH 

and as she slowly progressed towards the house she felt 
painfully nervous. 

“ Mother will question . . . she will be angry. 
What shall I say.? ” 

Just by the big barn she came upon Richard Calvert 
talking to a man, a seedy-looking man, who was prob- 
ably going to buy the young pigs; some one always 
came and bought the young pigs just when they were 
getting confidential. 

At sight of her, Calvert’s face went a shade redder, 
and then he frowned sharply, as if he were suddenly 
annoyed to see her there. 

She had intended thanking him most warmly for his 
kindness in writing so regularly, but his manner vexed 
her so much that she only exchanged a few stiff words, 
and then passed on. 

Richard Calvert overtook her as she reached the gate 
leading to the kitchen yard. 

“ Why did you walk ? ” he asked in the curt way he 
spoke to his farm-people. 

Susannah shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Hobson’s choice ... as there was nothing to 
drive me, I had to walk.” 

‘‘ The pony has not been out for days, I understand. 
It is absurd to keep an animal and make no use of it,” 
said Mr. Calvert sharply. 

Susannah got red and stared at him a little 
haughtily; she regarded this remark as savouring of 
impertinence. 

She was back in the old atmosphere, utterly forget- 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 219 

ting the real pleasure she had derived from seeing him 
the last time they had met. 

“ If I did not send, they could not possibly know 
I wanted the trap,” she observed coldly. 

Still Richard Calvert looked annoyed. He was bit- 
ing his moustache impatiently as he followed her across 
the yard to the kitchen entrance; and at the sound of 
his footsteps some one looked out of the doorway. It 
was Sophie Benson. 

“ Is it all right ? ” she began ; and then at sight of 
Susannah she paused and said, “ Oh ! ” And then she 
said, “ Mrs. Richland doesn’t expect you. Miss Susan- 
nah.” 

“ I know that perfectly well,” said Susannah. Some- 
thing in all this forced honrte what she knew already — 
that she was unwelcome; her heart sank a little more, 
but she was angry too. Without vouchsafing any 
further notice on Richard Calvert she passed through 
the kitchen into the house, feeling rather than seeing 
that as she went Sophie shrugged her shoulders, and 
then began to speak in a low voice and an eager manner 
to Mr. Calvert. 

The mere suggestion that there could be an under- 
standing of some sort between these two made Susan- 
nah’s lip curl; and yet, though she was so genuinely 
annoyed with Calvert in this moment, it hurt her to 
feel that she had made a mistake in him, and that he 
could be insincere. 

“ Is there no one straightforward and true.'^ ” she 
asked herself with a flash of passion. 


220 SUSANNAH 

But when she reached her own room, she, too, 
shrugged her shoulders. 

“ What can it matter to me whether they are friends 
or not ? ” she mused dully. “ It was only rather silly 
of me to have asked him to write, when, no doubt, 
Sophie knew this, and perhaps dictated all his let- 
ters. . . .” 

She sat and rested a little while before going to her 
mother. Luncheon was over, and she had eaten prac- 
tically no breakfast ; her head was aching violently. 

Long before this Sarah Thrale would have opened 
her letter ; she would know the truth at last ! 

It was very cheerless at Hemstone in these grey days. 
Her room had been unoccupied so long that it had a 
chill, unfriendly air. Susannah felt it would never be 
the same again — never! 

She might take out all her little treasures, set the 
well-known knickknacks in their accustomed place, make 
it wear the familiar outward look, but still it would be 
changed, just as she herself was so completely changed. 

After awhile she roused herself and went to announce 
her return to her mother. 

Mrs. Richland was in bed. A big fire blazed in the 
old-fashioned chimney. There was the familiar writ- 
ing-pad on the bed, and letters and telegrams scattered 
about just as Susannah had seen them ever since she 
could remember. 

But Celia Richland was not writing; she was lying 
back on her pillows, and one thin, white hand was rub- 
bing the other in an aimless, half-pathetic way. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 221 

She looked at Susannah and smiled; it was not a 
pleasant smile. Evidently Sophie Benson had prepared 
her to see the girl. 

“ I think I can guess why you have come home in this 
sudden fashion, Sue,” she said; “for some wholly 
childish reason, you have taken offence at something — 
or you have given offence, it does not matter which — and 
you have lost your chance. Well,” she shrugged her 
shoulders, “ don’t come to me for sympathy when 
you find the time going and your future all unset- 
tled.” 

Susannah moved past the bed, and stood by the fire. 

“ Dear mother,” she said — and her tone matched that 
other, so clear, so bitter — “ believe me, I shall ask sym- 
pathy from no one; least of all from you.” 

Mrs. Richland plucked impatiently at the silken 
coverlet. 

“ You have upset me very much,” she said fretfully. 
“ I imagined the matter absolutely settled, and now of 
course there will be no end of bothers. Well,” she 
shrugged her shoulders again, “ I shall leave you to 
explain to everybody that the engagement is broken.” 

Nevertheless, it was evident that Mrs. Richland was 
sharply disturbed, a fact which Susannah noted with a 
curious sensation of fear. 

It was unlike her mother to trouble so closely about 
her. There must be some other reason attached to 
this business — a reason which vaguely suggested that 
this broken engagement might mean personal discomfort 
to Mrs. Richland. 


222 SUSANNAH 

She caught her breath and paused an instant; then 
she said wearily: 

“ It grieves me to cause you any disappointment. 
Though your sympathy is so far away from me, 
mother, I would like you to try and believe that I love 
you; . . . and when one loves a person, one does not 
willingly grieve or disappoint that person ; but this 
. . . this matter has not lain entirely in my hands. I 
cannot tell you the whole story,” Susannah said in a 
low voice. “ All I ask you, dearest, is that you will try 
and forgive me. . . .” 

But Mrs. Richland made no answer to this speech, 
and the silence was so oppressive that Susannah turned 
and went away. 

After that, in the days that followed, the girl tried 
to pick up all her old duties, tried to be interested in 
all those things which had been so full of interest to her 
only a little while ago. 

Between herself and Richard Calvert there had fallen 
a definite coldness. 

Just for a moment circumstances had swept them 
very closely together, as it were, but now he was more 
of a stranger to her than he had been in the beginning 
of their acquaintance. 

After Susannah had been about four or five days at 
the farm, she suddenly realized that there had come no 
word or sign from Sarah Thrale. 

Her heart contracted when this fact framed itself 
clearly out of the formless misery of her thoughts. She 
was beset with a very agony of reproach and regret. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 223 

What was passing with that old woman? Was she 
ill, or was she only angry? 

“ I thought she would have written to me, just a 
few words,” Susannah said to herself. “ Oh, she must 
know that I care for her ! She must know that I would 
not have parted with her love so lightly if I had not 
been forced to do this.” 

Indeed, she seemed cut away from everything that 
signified the warmth or joy of life in this dark 
time. 

Since she had parted with Tora, there had come no 
word about the child. It was not likely that Emma 
would ever write again, but surely Edmund might have 
sent a letter. 

Was he, too, angry with her? Had Sarah Thrale 
passed on the story of her broken engagement? 

To think of Edmund Corneston was to touch very 
closely on that wound that would never heal. 

Mingled in with all this sorrowful bitterness was a 
strain of more prosaic anxiety. 

Though her mother made no confidence to her, seem- 
ing, indeed, more dependent than ever upon Sophie Ben- 
son, who in her turn was now deliberately impertinent 
in her manner to Susannah, the girl was convinced that 
some new financial crisis was at hand. 

One thing was very certain, no money had been spent 
on the household. None of the servants had received 
any wage, and the tradesmen’s books were all waiting 
for Susannah; when all these matters were settled, she 
would have drawn very largely on her modest account. 


224 SUSANNAH 

What puzzled her was how such expenditure was to 
go on. 

When she set herself to go through certain items in 
one of the books, she came across curious details ; for 
instance, practically every other day there was entered 
to Miss Benson the sum of perhaps a pound, or fifteen 
shillings ; one day it had been as much as three pounds. 

Before speaking to Benson, Susannah determined to 
go down to the shop herself and make inquiries. 

There was something in this that not only irritated 
but troubled her not a little. 

She paid the book in full, and then she asked for 
explanations, which were quickly forthcoming. 

The items charged to Miss Benson were simply 
amounts of money which Mrs. Richland’s attendant had 
borrowed during the weeks of Susannah’s absence. 

The owner of the stores was very nice to Susannah. 
He seemed to regard the transaction as a very natural 
one. 

“ You see. Miss Richland,” he said, “ as you were 
away. Miss Benson had no one to go to, and she does 
not like to trouble your mother. So she came to me 
one day, and I was only too pleased to oblige her.” 

“ Miss Benson has no right to borrow money in this 
way,” said Susannah coldly ; “ it must never occur 
again.” 

After this little interview, Susannah went out into 
the bleak country for awhile. 

She could not go back to the farm in her present 
mood. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 225 

“ If I speak the truth, I shall have an awful row,” 
she said to herself, “ and either Sophie or I will have 
to go ! Oh, how horrible it is to feel that there is no- 
body one can have faith in ! — no one who is true ! ” 

It was just in this moment, as she was turning a 
corner, that she came across Richard Calvert ; he was 
walking, and looked rather worn and old in his rough, 
well-used riding attire. 

Susannah was about to pass him, merely bending her 
head, when he stopped her. 

“ It is blowing up for rain,” he said; “ are you going 
far?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Susannah sharply ; I am only 
walking for the pleasure of walking.” 

There was a wistful look in the man’s eyes. 

“ I have wanted to speak to you for some time,” 
he said. “ I want to ask you something.” He paused 
an instant, and then he said abruptly, “ Are you an- 
noyed with me ? ” 

Susannah coloured, but she was in far too fretful and 
impatient a mood to be touched by the kindness of his 
voice. 

‘‘ Why should I be annoyed with you, Mr. Calvert ? ” 
she asked in the same short way. 

Calvert smiled. 

“ Well, that’s just what I want to know. A little 
while ago I was beginning to feel that you regarded 
me as your friend, but lately I seem to have slipped 
out of your sympathy altogether. However,” he went 
on, almost curtly, “ perhaps, after all, I am wrong to 


226 SUSANNAH 

question you. No doubt you have the best motives for 
what you do. I only want to speak to you about your 
mother. Since you have honoured me with that little 
request to keep you posted in your mother’s news, I 
have felt that you might permit me to speak to you 
on a very important matter connected with her.” 

“ Yes,” said Susannah faintly. Her heart began 
to beat. Was he going to put into words that cold 
fear which had taken the trick of creeping into her 
thoughts of late? “ You find her changed? ” she asked. 

‘‘ It is not altogether her health about which I wish 
to speak,” answered Calvert ; then abruptly, and in that 
stem voice which had always frightened Tora so much, 
“ Can’t you get rid of that woman ? ” 

Susannah looked at him. 

How big her eyes were, and how thin she had grown ! 
Something of the child that had been in her so clearly 
only a little while ago, seemed to have faded from her 
altogether of late. 

“ Do you mean Sophie ? ” she asked him. 

He nodded his head. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ who else could I mean? I regard 
that woman, Miss Richland, as a very definite evil in 
your mother’s life; in fact, I will go further, and say 
that I consider her about the very worst person that 
Mrs. Richland could have about her.” 

“ I thought you and she were such friends,” said 
Susannah. 

“ Friends ? ” echoed Calvert. “ Why, I loathe her ! 
She is the kind of woman I hold in absolute abhorrence. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 227 

and I think she knows it. Why, . . . half the ...” 
Then Richard Calvert checked himself suddenly. “ It 
is because I really care for Mrs. Richland, and because 
I like to think myself your friend, that I speak so 
plainly. You ought to have some one down here with 
you,” he went on, in his curt, dictatorial manner, “ some 
man whose proper place it would be to deal with this 
woman and . . . and other things. I should like to 
do it for you; but, then, I am almost a stranger.” 

Susannah looked at him. 

There was the ring of absolute sincerity in his voice, 
and yet, had she not seen him and Sophie whispering 
together.? Were not the fairest seeming things utterly 
black, and bad, and false.? 

She turned away from him stiffly. 

“ It is very good of you to take so much trouble, Mr. 
Calvert,” she said ; and, by her tone, Calvert knew that 
he was dismissed. He paused only an instant, then, lift- 
ing his hat, he walked sharply away in the direction 
of the village. 

“ I shall not believe him,” said Susannah to herself ; 
“ why should I .? . . . I will never believe in anybody 
again.” Then all at once she broke into a passion of 
tears. “ Oh, Emma, Emma ! ” she said to herself, “ if 
only you had left me my faith! If only I could love 
you as I used to love you I ” 

It was quite dark when Susannah reached the farm. 

A strange dog-cart was waiting outside the stables. 

Susannah entered, as she usually did, by the kitchen, 
and found a man drinking tea and chatting with the 


228 SUSANNAH 

cook. The servant went aside with Susannah and in- 
formed her that a gentleman was waiting in the sitting- 
room to speak to her. 

“To see me or Mrs. Richland?” asked Susannah 
nervously. 

“ Well, miss,” said the servant, “ I think he must 
have come about some business, but he asked particular 
to see you, and he said would we please not to say to 
any one else as he was here. But won’t you have a 
cup of tea, miss, before you go to him? You look fair 
done up.” 

Susannah shook her head, and walked through the 
passage into the hall. 

That presentiment of coming trouble which Calvert’s 
few words had increased, settled now into a definite con- 
viction. 

Quickly and nervously she determined that this 
stranger waiting for her must be some one in connection 
with her mother’s affairs. 

“ I shall have to telegraph to Mr. Burke in the morn- 
ing,” she said to herself. “ If ... it is very much, 
I shall be obliged to ask him to help me. . . .” 

She threw off her coat and her hat, and pressed her 
hands to her eyes for a moment, and then, opening 
the door of the small sitting-room, she passed in. 

A man in a long overcoat was standing with his 
back towards her as she entered, but he turned quickly ; 
as he did so, the girl caught her breath in a painfully 
sharp fashion, and retreated suddenly. For it was no 
stranger who was waiting for her. 


XV 


“Sad is the evening; all the level sand 

Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea. 

Tired of the green caresses of the land, 

Withdraws into its own infinity. 

But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn, 

Filling the vacant spaces of the sky. 

While little winds blow here and there forlorn. 

And all the stars, wearying of shining, die.” 

Indians Love Lyrics. 

T he shocked look that came into her face, the 
way she winced and shrank from him, hurt 
Adrian Thrale in an indescribable way. 

He had been waiting a long time for her to come, 
waiting with impatience, and a nervous excitement jar- 
ring him. 

As long as he could see, he had stood at one of the 
windows, and stared out on the desolate stretch of land 
— that in spring and summer was so freshly green, so 
pastoral — that spread in front of the house, straining 
his eyes to see the first glimpse of her figure approach 
from the gate. But the gloom of the closing day made 
everything blurred by degrees, and he had turned away 
and commenced to pace to and fro the length of the low- 
roofed room; such an old-world room, with its heavy 
projecting beams, and deeply set windows. He oc- 
229 


230 SUSANNAH 

cupied himself in picturing Susannah moving about this 
room. 

The furniture was old-fashioned too, but there was 
a grace in the arrangements which he felt came from her 
touch. A wide old writing-bureau was filled with 
papers and letters ; the pen was lying just as she must 
have put it down. To hold this pen in his hand for a 
little while was a delight. 

The maid, when she brought in the lamps, remarked 
that Miss Susannah was late ; that it was not at all like 
Miss Susannah to be so late; that she would surely be 
in very soon now. The servant cast many curious and 
admiring glances at Mr. Thrale as she spoke. 

Guests, or strangers on business of this type, were 
rare at Hernstone. 

The driver, who was regaling himself in the kitchen, 
could give no information about his fare. The “ gent ” 
was unknown to him — came down by the quick after- 
noon train to Torchester, and then chartered the dog- 
cart. And — ^the man opined — they would have a cold 
drive back to the town. 

Inside the cosy sitting-room it was very warm, almost 
oppressively warm, yet Adrian would not disembarrass 
himself of his big coat. He was a stranger in her home ; 
perhaps, he said a little bitterly at one moment, a 
stranger in her thoughts ! 

But not till the door opened, and he saw her eyes 
change as they rested on him, did Adrian realize how 
far she had slipped from him ! 

He spoke hurriedly. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 231 

“ I am sorry,” he said. 

The words came involuntarily; he had upon him a 
quick sense of regret that he should inadvertently have 
made her suffer. 

“ I hope you will forgive me,” he went on. “ I did 
not write; I felt it would be so much better to speak 
than write. 

Susannah’s face had a grey look. 

She seemed to have grown years older. The sensitive, 
shy look, that was so sweet, had gone altogether; she 
held herself very stiffly and coldly, and did not look at 
him as she answered. 

“ It is a great mistake to have come,” she said almost 
impatiently ; “ you expose me to needless annoyance.” 

Adrian flushed; then he said with infectious im- 
patience : 

“ But you could not expect me to allow matters to rest 
where you left them, when you came here in so strange, 
so utterly unexpected a fashion, could you.? You must 
have known that I should require an explanation.” 

“ I did not think about it at all,” said Susannah ; she 
was moving one hand in a mechanical way along the 
back of the chair in front of her. “ I wrote to Mrs. 
Thrale all there was to say,” she added, after a little 
pause. 

“ I saw your letter,” said Adrian. He advanced and 
stood by the table near her. “ And she gave me back 
the chain and the ring,” he added in a low voice. 

Susannah sat down on the chair, put her elbow on 
the table, and shadowed her face with her hand. 


232 SUSANNAH 

‘‘ Believe me,” she said, “ you can serve no purpose 
by ... by speaking of this, or by coming here. ...” 

“ I shall at least satisfy myself as to why you acted 
so strangely,” Adrian said a trifle shortly. 

She was silent. Physically wearied by her long walk, 
she was utterly unfit for this nervous tension; yet she 
was calm, quite, quite calm. 

Adrian looked at her half wistfully. 

From the moment that his aunt’s note reached him, 
informing him that Susannah had gone, he had jumped 
to the conclusion that this hasty departure had been 
brought about by Emma in some way or another; the 
deduction was obvious, and when he met Sarah Thrale, 
and she had given him Susannah’s letter to read, the 
presentiment that Emma had made mischief had 
strengthened at once into a conviction. 

It must have been so very, very easy for Emma to 
have put poison into the girl’s sensitive heart ! 

For it was only by the most delicate handling, by the 
very poetry of tact, as it were, that Susannah had been 
wooed into the path they had trodden together these last 
few weeks, and even though they had seemed to reach 
understanding, even though their sympathy had met 
and mingled so happily, Adrian knew well that a jar- 
ring suspicion, a sneer, a spiteful word, could easily 
divide that sympathy from his. 

Not that Susannah in ordinary circumstances would 
have been so swayed by another, but, hemmed about as 
their acquaintance had been from its inception by such 
unusual, such hurtful influences to a nature like hers, it 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 2SS 

was inevitable that Emma, above all people, would have 
the power to disturb the girl. 

Very little had been spoken between Sarah Thrale and 
himself. The old woman had asked no questions, in- 
vited no confidences; she seemed to accept Susannah’s 
explanation that the unusual betrothal had been brought 
into existence for a very strong reason — a reason which 
lay outside Susannah’s own self — as being quite suffi- 
cient. 

“ Of course,” she had said to Adrian, with her faint 
smile, “ I knew something was amiss ... I kept my 
eyes shut resolutely, and I hoped never to have had to 
open them. But I can see through closed eyes some- 
times.” 

“ We will leave her for a little while,” Adrian had 
answered. And then they had dined together, a dreary 
sort of dinner, with Susannah’s empty chair facing 
them all the time. 

And after that, he had counted the hours till a miser- 
able long week had passed into the clasp of time, and 
now he was with her, and he realized, as he looked into 
her changed face, that there was not an instant of that 
long dreary week of actual separation in which he had 
not stood closer to her than he did now ! 

As calmly as he could, he began speaking after a 
time. 

“ That something happened to upset you, I knew at 
once,” he said — “ something you probably will prefer 
not to tell me ; into that I will not go ... I only want 
to ask you to be just to us ... to Aunt Sarah, and to 


234 SUSANNAH 

me. ... You have eased your heart at last, you have 
told her the truth, as far as it touches ourselves. Now 
. . . can we not agree to forget all that was so hurtful.? 
I am here to speak of the future.” 

Susannah dropped her hand, and looked for an in- 
stant at him, then got up slowly. 

“ I came away because I wished, above all things, 
never to hear this subject mentioned again,” she said. 

That bygone morning out in the gardens at the 
Bourne, when she had reprimanded him so sharply, 
there had been petulance, a weak waywardness in her 
voice ; now she spoke collectedly, decisively, even a trifle 
harshly. 

He answered her with some heat. 

“ There are any amount of things we all of us try to 
shirk in life,” he said ; “ but we find we have to meet them 
all the same.” 

Susannah walked to the fire. 

“ Well ! I do not recognize the necessity of discussing 
this particular subject now, or at any time,” she said 
coldly. “ I have really nothing to say in connection 
with it. . . .” 

He ought to have taken this as a dismissal, but he 
did not. 

“ Will you listen to me.? ” he asked her instead, so 
gently as to be almost humble. 

She neither assented nor refused, so he spoke. 

“ This action of yours has precipitated matters,” he 
said not very steadily. “ I had resolved that I would 
not speak to you definitely until I had shaped out my 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 2S5 

career a little. You see, I have so much to learn, so 
much to forget. Perhaps you may have heard about 
my tomfoolery in the beginning— how I threw over all 
that my father had spent a lifetime in putting together, 
cut myself adrift from the business, and played the fool 
generally. It is no secret,” Adrian said a little bitterly. 
“ I have wasted six or seven solid years ; perhaps I shall 
never make them up; . . . that I don’t know, ... I 
can only try. And I have been trying lately, Susannah ; 
working not merely for my own self-respect or to give 
the dear old woman a tardy satisfaction, but because of 
something sweeter ... a hope at once inspiring and 
intangible. ... I am quite sure you understand me,” 
Adrian finished in a low voice. ‘‘ I have had you 
in my thoughts — in my heart ! . . . I have had a yearn- 
ing to stand better in my own eyes, because then, per- 
haps, I might feel more fit to stand before you. ... I 
... I love you, Susannah, and my dream has been to 
ask you to be my wife. Not now . . . not for a long 
time,” Adrian went on eagerly. He moved nearer to 
her, though her uncompromisingly cold attitude gave 
him no encouragement to do this. I want to work my 
way to my wife. I will have no more ready-made for- 
tunes ! . . I am learning the tricks of the business 

every day. T have put my heart into the work, and 
later ... if Aunt Sarah can spare me, I mean to go 
out to one of the branch houses abroad.” He paused 
an instant. “ I had dreamed, Susannah, of asking you 
to come with me. . . This he said very hurriedly, 
after that pause. 


236 SUSANNAH 

There was silence, broken only by the crackling of 
the log on the fire, which shot blue and orange and 
mauve flames up the wide chimney. 

I feel I have grown to know you so well. ... I 
feel you would so much rather help a working man’s life 
than share a rich man’s fortune, . . .” Adrian said 
softly. Then he bit his lip as she still remained silent. 
Suddenly he changed his tone. 

“ Come, be honest with me. Sue,” he said almost 
authoritatively. “ What has driven you away from 
me.? That last evening we were together in town, 
you. . . .” 

She found her voice at last. 

How tired it sounded! As if (as was the case) she 
had been weeping unrestrainedly for hours. 

“ Why do you press me in this way ? Surely you 
ought to understand. I came away because I wished to 
protect myself from the almost inevitable results of 
... of what happened at the Bourne. . . .” She 
seemed to slur the words a little ; but there was bitterness 
and reproach in her voice as she said, “ I never imagined 
that you would come here in this way.” 

Adrian was frowning now. 

“ What do you mean by the ‘ almost inevitable results 
of what happened at the Bourne ’ ? Don’t play at 
truths, . . . that is so like Emma, and we want nothing 
that can even remind us of Emma.” 

Susannah winced visibly. 

The action was full of meaning to the man, it sent 
the blood rushing wildly about his heart. 


CHAPT'ER FIFTEEN 237 

“ Dearest,” he said, and he stretched out both his 
hands suddenly, “dofi’t deny me! Don’t separate 
yourself from me! . . I have been straightforward 
with you. Come . . . be straightforward with me. 
. . . Tell me all that is n your heart. ... You are so 
young. Sue, that things which would be natural enough 
to me may seem utterly impossible to your mind, and 
this is just where I may be able to help you.” His 
hands dropped to his side; she had taken no notice of 
them. Adrian caught his breath, and his heart felt on 
fire. “ Of course, Emma made some kind of mischief,” 
he said ; then, with anger, “ there is no other possible 
explanation to be offered for what you did. Well! in 
this I am as much concerned as yourself, and so I de- 
mand to know why you should have gone away so 
abruptly. Why, after you had put your hand in 
mine, and pledged yourself to friendship, you should 
have turned deliberately away from that compact of 
faith and sympathy, and have left the house without 
a word of real explanation, and seemingly without a 
regret. . . .” 

Susannah answered him after a pause. 

“I did . . . what I felt to be my duty,” she said 
in her tired voice ; then, a little quickly, she added, “ I 
beg that you will not allude to my sister in connection 
with this. I cannot permit it; I acted as I did on my 
own responsibility entirely.” 

Adrian stared at her for a little while; then he said 
shortly : 

“ I will not believe that ; unless, indeed, you are a 


288 SUSANNAH 

living lie and a hypocrite like s o many of the others. 
Well! if you won’t speak ... I will wring the truth 
out of Emma, and in double-qu ick time, too ! ” 

Susannah looked at him in a frightened way now. 

He was certainly very, ver}, angry; the veins were 
standing out on his temples, hr/ mouth and chin seemed 
carved in iron. 

“ You are wrong not to believe me,” she said un- 
steadily. “ I repeat I came away because I felt I must 
do this . . . because I found the position no longer 
endurable. You know,” she added with a catch in her 
voice, “ that the deception fretted me from the begin- 
ning. ... I hoped you would have understood. . . . 
I — I never supposed you would not understand,” she 
finished half brokenly. 

Adrian had flung off his coat. . . . He was so hot 
he could not breathe, weighted in the big coat. 

“ What 1 did you suppose,” he asked with half a sneer, 
“ that I should sit down and let you go quite calmly ? 
. . . that after the bond that had been made between 
us, I should fold my arms, and make no effort to bring 
you back.J^ ” 

He approached very closely to her, and she, though 
she was trembling with fear and the burning anguish 
that possessed her, could not move an inch — the spell 
of his presence was so potent, the struggle to deny the 
hunger of her heart so fierce, so overwhelming. 

“Tell me,” he said; “was that what you thought, 
Sue?” 

His eyes compelled her eyes. She looked at him. 


CHAP’^rER FIFTEEN 239 

her cheeks were drained of colour; even her lips were 
white. 

“ Oh, I did not want you to come ! ” she said — it was 
like the plaintive cry of a child — ‘‘ you are . . . cruel 
to have come! ...” 

“ Cruel 1 ” Adrian said. The word hurt him. He 
looked at her as she stood now with her head drooping, 
and his anger went. 

“ My beloved,” he said, and his eyes were wet. He 
drew quite close to her, and, taking both her cold hands 
in his, he drew her round and then pressed her hands 
to his heart. “ I have fed my hope with dreams all 
through these long, dark, miserable days since you 
went,” he whispered. “ I have said to myself, ‘ She is 
waiting for me: she is counting the hours as I count 
them.’ It never entered into my head to suppose you 
would not expect me. You are already so much mine. 
Sue, that I followed you as a matter of course. Oh, 
you must have known I would come I ” he said with a 
touch of agitation. “ Look back. Sue. . . . Remem- 
ber that moment when we stood together on the rock 
with only the sea and the dusk about us . . . remember 
the last time we were together . . . when I tried to put 
my chain round your throat . . . tried and f ailed. . . . 
Did not your heart, so sweet and white as it is, know 
what it was that took the strength out of my fingers 
so suddenly.? And . . . after this . . . would you 
have me believe that you did not know that I would 
follow you wherever you should go — to the world’s end; 
to the grave itself, if that were necessary.? . . 


MO SUSANNA 

She tried to draw away her lands, and he released 
them. There was a vivid, pain.' ul colour in her cheeks 
now. 

“I am not reproaching you for going from us,” 
Adrian went on in the same dreamy tone. “ You only 
acted as one so delicately fashimed in mind as you are 
would act. Just now I told you I would not ask you 
to give me a full explanation. . . . All I want is to 
know what you wish now, and to entreat you to be 
as gentle with us ... to come back to us as soon as 
you can.” 

Susannah shut her eyes ; her brows were contracted ; 
then she opened her eyes again. 

“ I shall never go back,” she said very simply ; “ it 
has all been a mistake ... a stupid mistake. ... If 
I have given you the faintest right to suppose that 
. . . that things would go differently ... I am sorry. 
From my heart I am very sorry. . . .” 

Adrian looked at her half incredulously. 

Vaguely he seemed to hear the voice of Emma in these 
words, they carried a painful suggestion of Emma’s 
plaintive childish insincerity. 

“ And what of my love ? ” he asked in a low, hushed 
sort of way. 

She answered him almost at once. 

“ Love any one you will, but not me! . . . You are 
wrong to speak of love to me,” she added with a bitter- 
ness which caught him as sharply as a blow. “ The 
ridiculous position we held for a time gives you no 
right to do so ; . . . indeed, it would have been kinder. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 241 

even . . . more . . . manly, I think, if you had seen 
for yourself that such a ... a thing would be very 
hurtful to me. . . . From the beginning you have been 
wrong . . . dreadfully wrong ! ” Susannah said, losing 
her calm ; “ and now you are doing worse than be- 
fore. . . 

Adrian followed her as she turned to move away, 
and caught her by the arm. Unconscious that he was 
hurting her, he pulled her towards him, nearer and 
nearer, till his arms had closed about her. 

“ I tell you once again that I love you. . . . Look 
me in the eyes, if you can,” he said hoarsely, “ and 
swear that you do not love me.” 

And Susannah looked up. She was strung up to a 
pitch of nervous tension. 

“ I do not need an oath,” she said ; “ and I will tell 
you this . . . that I despise you absolutely ! . . .” 

Then Adrian laughed, and stooping, he kissed her 
on the lips in a fierce sort of way, then on the eyes, and 
then again on the lips. 

“ Now we are quits,” he said, and he let his arms 
drop and set her free. The way in which she sat down 
and hid her face in her hands should have touched him; 
but he was swept about by such a passion as had never 
come to him before. 

“ You have made me suffer, and, by God, it’s only 
fair that you should suffer too! ” he said hoarsely. 

He picked up his big coat as he spoke, and there 
was a moment’s silence as he put it on; then he ad- 
dressed her quite quietly. 


242 ■ SUSANNAH 

“ May I ring and ask your maid to have the cart 
sent round for me? ” 

For answer Susannah rose and rang the bell herself. 
She had a dazed look in her eyes ; but she held her head 
very erect. 

When the maid came she gave the order, and then 
added the conventional offer of hospitality. 

“ Oh, thank you,” said Adrian, who was now appar- 
ently as calm as she looked, “ I shall get some dinner 
in Torchester. There will be plenty of time before the 
train starts.” 

He picked up a tweed travelling-cap he was wearing. 

“ Good-bye,” he said, as the sound of wheels was 
heard on the rough path outside. 

And Susannah said ‘‘ Good-bye ” with stiff, cold lips. 

The next moment he passed out and closed the door 
after him. 

She heard him exchanging a few remarks with the 
maid and the driver of the cart. 

His voice had all its accustomed warmth and pleas- 
antness. 

The girl standing beside the fireplace gripped her 
hands fiercely together. She felt as if she were wither- 
ing slowly out of life. 

The sudden emptiness of the familiar old room 
pressed upon her mockingly. And only a moment 
before she had been feeling the wild beat of his heart 
against hers, the pressure of his lips still burned her 
eyes and her lips ! . . . 

When the gate of the little garden clanged, and she 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN US 

heard the cart drive away, she gave a sharp, a wild 
cry. 

“ Oh, no ! . . . oh ! ... no ! ” she said to herself 
with a gasp. “ He must not go. . . . Oh, I didn’t 
mean it ! I want him back ! . . .” 

She left the fire hurriedly. Outside in the hall, the 
maid had just bolted the outer door, . . . Susannah 
opened it again. She was shaking as with ague. . . . 
It took her quite a couple of moments to push open 
the gate beyond, and when she started to run, she saw 
the lamps of the dog-cart going fleetly away in the 
distance before her. Still she ran on . . . plunging 
through the mud and the wet long grass; her breath 
came painfully; in her ears there buzzed a tumult. 
With her heart in her throat she called to him. 

“ Beloved ! my beloved ! ” she cried hoarsely, using 
the sweet, old-fashioned word he had used. 

But the sound of her voice went no further than her 
own ears. There was no answer, only the cold rushing 
of the wet wind in the trees. And all at once Susannah 
stopped. 

The dog-cart had turned out into the road. He 
was gone. Though she called him ever so tenderly, he 
could not hear now. . . . Beyond, so near ... so 
far . . . she could see the lamps go in dancing fashion 
along the road till the hill dipped, and they were lost 
to sight. 


XVI 

“ Remontez, remontez ces heurs pass6es; 

Vos tristes souvenirs m’aident k soupirer; 

Allez oil va mon ame, allez, 6 mes pens6es; 

Mon coeur est plein, je veux pleurer.” 

A. DE Lamartine. 

T he autumn passed slowly away in a peevish 
mood, as it were. The cold winds seemed 
to have gone to another world. The atmos- 
phere was muggy. Rain fell continuously, and even 
in the country, at times, there would come a day of 
fog, when the moist, grey depression that hung like 
a veil over the fields and trees would creep ghost-like 
into the house and chill the cheeriest heart. 

At Hernstone there was always an inclination to 
fog in winter and mist in summer, as the house lay 
low, and there was such a quantity of marsh land 
stretching beyond the orchards. 

Susannah had dreaded the approach of winter for this 
reason. She felt that at such times her mother’s dislike 
for her surroundings was justifiable. 

The previous winter, fortunately, had been a dry 
one, and when the fogs had come they had not lasted 
very long. With a bright bit of sunshine the cold, how- 
ever sharp, was always endurable, and it was always 

244 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 245 

possible to make her mother’s room as warm as a hot- 
house. But this sad autumn was, the girl felt, the very 
worst kind of weather for the invalid woman. 

What struck most painfully on Susannah’s mind 
after a little time was the fact that her mother had 
suddenly ceased to excite or interest herself in any of 
those things which formerly had signified the very 
motive of her existence. For instance, she let the two 
big races in October go by without sending or receiving 
innumerable telegrams, and she made no attempt to 
recoup her fallen fortune by any of her favourite 
ways. 

They were so seldom together, Susannah and her 
mother. Once, at least, every day the girl would go 
to Mrs. Richland’s room, but however gentle and sym- 
pathetic, Susannah never could rouse her mother to 
evince the slightest interest in her, one way or 
another. To all intents and purposes, Mrs. Richland 
had ceased to remember that Susannah was even in 
existence. 

It was absolutely hopeless for the girl to attempt 
to fill her life with all those little comforting duties 
which should have been so natural in the position in 
which she was placed. It was no longer Sophie Ben- 
son’s arrogant power that restrained her; it was her 
mother’s indifference towards her, the resentful aver- 
sion of the sick woman to her presence, which rendered 
it so impossible for Susannah to let her unchanged love 
find vent in actions. 

What was even more hurtful to her than this sorrow- 


.246 SUSANNAH 

ful isolation, was the conviction that Benson’s influence 
was exercising a malignant effect on Celia Richland’s 
once brisk and, in a sense, brilliant mind. 

Sometimes Susannah saw a strange look come into 
her mother’s face when Sophie spoke to her, the kind 
of look that might come to a child who is at once 
fascinated and frightened. 

In these latter days Benson had contracted the habit 
of giving herself frequent holidays, and in the hours 
of her absence Mrs. Richland was alternately sullen 
and irritable, refusing food till her attendant returned, 
yet nervously, painfully eager to utter no reproach 
when she saw Benson again. 

The absolute submission of her mother to the tyranny 
of this common mind was something that Susannah 
could never accept philosophically, although long ago 
she had discarded all attempt at counteracting this 
baneful influence. And in this time it was very, very 
hard to stand aside and do nothing. Since that episode 
of the borrowed money, the relations between herself 
and Benson were more disagreeable than they had ever 
been. 

There were many ways open to the woman who held 
so intimate a place in Mrs. Richland’s life, to sting 
and trouble Susannah; and when the temptation to 
turn and silence Benson was almost unconquerable, 
there would come to Susannah a sickening dread of 
hearing some story dealing with her mother’s financial 
manoeuvres which she would be unable to refute, and 
which would only put fresh humiliation upon her. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 247 

The question of money was always one that pressed 
painfully when connected with Celia Richland, but Su- 
sannah began to hope for better things when she saw 
her mother’s gambling infatuation gradually fade. 
There was nevertheless a fair measure of debt and diffi- 
culty remaining, and no matter how much she tried to 
check the household expenses, they were always ahead 
of her. 

It was a fact, of which Susannah was wholly uncon- 
scious, that but for Richard Calvert’s frequent appear- 
ances at the farm she would have found it almost im- 
possible to live through this dark time. 

Mr. Calvert had apparently quite forgotten Susan- 
nah’s ungracious reception of his proffered friendship. 
At any rate, he rarely let a day pass without paying a 
brief visit to Hernstone Farm, though more often 
than not such a visit entailed considerable inconvenience 
to himself. 

There was, as a matter of fact, little connected with 
the actual farm to demand so much personal inspection 
at this time of the year, and the bailiff was half in- 
clined to resent Mr. Calvert’s daily visits. 

It was not at once — not, indeed, for some time — that 
Susannah confessed to herself that she had been very 
unkind to this man who was so kind in his own peculiar 
way to her mother and herself. 

But one day, when she had awakened a little from 
the horrible sense of desolation that had fallen upon 
her like a blight after that night when she had so reso- 
lutely thrust love and happiness away from her, Susan- 


I 

^48 SUSANNAH 

nah realized that whenever she saw Richard Calvert, 

she was conscious of a touch of remorse. 

Once she had arrived so far, it was only natural to 
her to try and let him see that she sincerely regretted 
her harsh and unjust thoughts. For certainly she had 
learned to believe by this time in his stoutly declared 
objection to Sophie Benson; and whatever the reason 
may have been that had led Sophie and he to seem to 
have such an intimate understanding one with the other 
on that day of her unexpected return home, this reason 
was certainly not based on friendship or sympathy on 
his part. The subject of Sophie was, however, care- 
fully avoided between them. 

The few words they exchanged together were trivial 
and conventional, and yet, little by little, as the days 
stole onwards towards Christmas-time, there came to 
Susannah a feeling that Richard Calvert was wholly at 
her service in any way that she might have need of 
him. 

It became almost a habit with her to glance towards 
the gate in the early hours of those winter afternoons, 
and watch even with a touch of hope for the first 
glimpse of the well-known figure on horseback turn in 
at the big gate from the road. 

Sometimes, but only seldom, he would accept her 
invitation and sit a little while with her in the sitting- 
room; very often he brought a gift of game, or some 
other little delicacy for Mrs. Richland . . . and once 
now and again he would climb the stairs and spend half 
an hour with the sick woman. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 249 

On such occasions Calvert used to have recourse to 
his almost forgotten trick of dissimulating. Never by 
any chance would he let Susannah suppose that he 
saw a change in Mrs. Richland; that to his eyes the 
frail, waxen- white face grew thinner each time he saw 
it; that the feeble, half-somnolent condition which had 
superseded that unwholesome atmosphere of feverish 
excitement, wild hope, and wilder irritation, was sig- 
nificant to him of something far more grave than a 
late-bom wisdom, or the calmness of philosophy. For 
if he spoke out all he felt, if he put stern facts in front 
of the girl, if he urged her to prepare for that death 
which to his eyes was so legibly visioned on her mother’s 
face, might he not drive from her that tranquillity 
which had come so slowly, and with such seeming diffi- 
culty, to Susannah’s mind of late? Might he not 
estrange her from the simple yet definite bond of sym- 
pathy which, to his great satisfaction, had gradually 
been created between them? 

When the end was very, very near, then he deter- 
mined that he would speak. 

Suddenly, however, he resolved on another course. 
A wholly unexpected legal matter demanded his pres- 
ence in London. An old friend had died and left him 
a fairly large legacy, with the condition that he 
accepted the trusteeship of a young boy. 

It was necessary that Calvert should go into this 
matter personally. Therefore one day, instead of his 
tall figure in the shabby riding-gear, there came a 
messenger to Hernstone to carry Miss Richland some 


250 SUSANNAH 

promised books, and to announce to Spens, the bailiff, 
that Mr. Calvert had gone to London for a few hours. 

Richard Calvert had grown out of touch with Lon- 
don during these last ten or twelve years. Unless he 
was absolutely obliged to go thither on some such 
errand as the present one, he avoided the journey. It 
always made him feel so old, so much a creature apart, 
when he passed, even for an hour or so, through the 
old places which had been so closely associated with 
his early days. 

He had long ago severed his connection with all his 
clubs except one, and here he was looked upon as an 
old fogy. His name conveyed nothing to the younger 
generation of members. 

Not that he was really so old counted by years, but 
life drives on so swiftly these latter days. There is 
no room for remembrances. ... No place for any 
except those who push to the front with grim deter- 
mination to stop there by every means in their power. 

To change from his country clothes, and garb him- 
self in a more suitable social fashion, always brought 
home to Richard Calvert the enormous chasm that 
yawned between himself and the world to which he 
rightly belonged. 

Only once a little time before, when he had gone 
up for half a day, he had encountered a friend who 
had known him in his boyhood, and this friend’s honest 
surprise at sight of him was a definite proof to him 
that with most people he had passed so completely out 
of sight as to be £^lready dead and buried. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 251 

The legal business that had brought him away from 
his solitude this day threatened to be rather compli- 
cated. 

It appeared that a lawsuit was pending, and he was 
asked to declare definitely whether he would act as 
the trustee of the child whose property was threatened 
by this lawsuit. 

Calvert did nothing in a hurry. He discussed the 
pros and cons, and then declared that he must have 
a little time to think the situation over. It was the 
mention of one name that sent his thoughts deliberately 
away from this business into that groove which had 
grown to be so amazingly near and dear to him. 

“We have already taken counsel’s opinion,” said the 
lawyer; “the matter was put before Sir Edmund Cor- 
neston a few days ago, and we could not have a finer 
authority. I hope, if we do fight, that we shall be 
able to persuade Sir Edmund to handle the case him- 
self.” 

Whilst he was eating his lunch at a table in one of 
the dimmest corners of the big club-room, Calvert’s 
soul had flown back to the country — to Hernstone. 
He was thinking of Susannah in that tender, anx- 
ious way in which he had thought of her for so long 
now. 

Though there was no confidence between them, he 
felt he could read into the girl’s heart, and what he 
read made his own heart contract. 

Her love for her mother had always been to him 
so beautiful, and the knowledge that she was shut away 


252 SUSANNAH 

entirely from her mother’s affection, that Mrs. Rich- 
land seemed devoid of all maternal instinct where this 
girl was concerned, struck him in the light of a little 
tragedy. 

He saw more than Susannah saw. He was more 
able to mark out the danger which Benson was working 
than Susannah. It was the girl’s solitariness that 
seemed so sad to Calvert. . . . He himself had out- 
lived all personal sensitiveness; that the world should 
pass him by and exclaim that he was not in his grave 
whenever he emerged from his seclusion, mattered not 
a row of pins to him ; but he knew that Susannah had 
grieved sharply because her mother was forgotten, and 
all at once he felt indignant. 

“ Why not ? ” he said to himself as he got up. “ This 
Lady Comeston is a daughter, too. At any rate, if 
I can be the means of getting that creature removed, 
I shall feel that I am in a sense justified in my inter- 
ference.” 

The hall-porter found him Sir Edmund Comeston’s 
address, and he put himself into a hansom, and in a 
very little while he had alighted in front of the smart, 
small house, in the smart, small street which was Sir 
Edmund and Lady Corneston’s town residence. 

Gloomy winter day as it was, there was an air of 
brightness about Emma’s home. 

The door was very green, and the copper fittings 
beautifully kept. There were the daintiest of French 
curtains across the windows, through which the electric 
light gleamed hospitably on this very dull afternoon. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 253 

Emma was at luncheon with one companion, a nice 
“ boj ” whom she had met at a hunt ball two or three 
days before. 

When Richard Calvert’s card was brought her she 
frowned, and then she smiled; she had cultivated the 
trick of using her brains quickly. She could put two 
and two together in an incredibly short time, and the 
little sum she made now gave her quite an unexpected 
sense of pleasure. 

“ Show Mr. Calvert into Sir Edmund’s study,” she 
said, then she smiled at her guest. “ So tiresome. It 
is a stupid man whom I must see. He has come up 
from the country on purpose. Please make yourself 
quite at home. I will be back directly.” 

Richard Calvert had been hardly more than a name 
to Lady Corneston in the past, but when she had been 
staying at the Bourne she had heard constant men- 
tion of him, and on one occasion, when Mr. Harraday 
had sketched for her a little of Calvert’s history, she 
had given him a fleeting tribute of pity. 

For to Emma’s mind no fate could be so bad as the 
hard fate which had fallen to young Calvert years 
before. 

To be socially ruined, to lose the homage of the 
world, to drift into obscurity ; it was the mere sugges- 
tion of such things approaching her that had so 
shaken Emma for one short spell. 

Lady Corneston quite bewildered Calvert by her 
sparkling manner and her radiant appearance. He 
could not in the least understand why she should seem 


254 SUSANNAH 

so pleased to see him, and he felt as if he had been 
switched back twenty years. 

Though the fashion of her garment was different, 
there was the same note in this modern woman as there 
had been in that other who had played so prominent 
and so poor a part in his early life. 

Very briefly, rather uncompromisingly, he put before 
Lady Comeston the purport of his visit. 

“ I came really to see your husband,” he said ; “ but 
as I am only in town for a few hours, I thought per- 
haps I might be permitted to speak to you.” 

And speak he did. 

In a trenchant manner he declared that unless some 
means were taken to remove Sophie Benson from Mrs. 
Richland he would not answer for the consequences. 

Emma agreed with all he said. 

“ I do assure you, Mr. Calvert,” she said earnestly, 
and she looked plaintive, “ I have always loathed that 
woman. She is really a cat. . . . But my poor 
mother is so infatuated with her. One hardly likes to 
interfere. Of course,” Emma said in her soft way, “ we 
always think that my sister ought really to be more 
with my mother.” 

“ Your sister is breaking her heart about your 
mother,” said Calvert in his curt way. “ Y ou see you 
never go near her, so you really don’t know what her 
life is. That is just exactly why I ventured to speak. 
I hope Miss Richland will not be annoyed with me for 
doing so ... I must risk that. I am her friend, and I 
feel that I want to help her.” 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 255 

“ Poor Sue,” said Emma, still softly; “ but how nice 
of you to be interested in her, Mr. Calvert. I shall tell 
my husband what you say, and I quite agree with you. 
He is the proper person to act in this matter since my 
mother has no son. Now, won’t you have some coffee? 
some liqueur? a cigar? Can’t we at least persuade you 
to dine with us to-night ? ” 

But Calvert took up his old-fashioned hat, and went 
away quickly. 

He could not breathe very freely in that small, 
heated, over-scented house. 

To think of Hernstone with its wide sweep of coun- 
try, cold and bleak as it was in these days, was like a 
breath of clear, pure air. 

He hoped uneasily that he had done good ; but some- 
how he did not feel very much drawn to Susannah’s 
sister. 

In a vague sort of way he seemed to catch a little 
bitterness in her sweet voice, and in a dim, far-off sort 
of way he felt a little sorry for her husband. 

Emma paused a few moments before rejoining the 
nice “ boy ” in the dining-room. 

“ Of course he is in love with Sue,” she said ; “ and 
it would really be an excellent thing for her. . . . 
He is just the sort of ugly, hard-looking creature that 
Sue is sure to like. I suppose he would choke if he 
had to tell a lie, and considers himself a saint because 
he pays his debts, and wears clothes that were made 
twenty years ago. Well, I shall never invent a ro- 
mance about anybody again! From what Nonie and 


256 SUSANNAH 

old Harraday used to tell me about Dick Calvert, I 
thought he must be something quite out of the common ; 
and this man looks like one of his own scarecrows. 
Still, he would make a good husband, I am sure, and if 
anything happens to poor mother, it would be such a 
blessing to feel that we should not have Sue on our 
hands.” 

There was a very pretty smile on Emma’s lips as 
she went back to her guest. 

“ You must come again, and let me read your hand,” 
she said a little later; “ this afternoon I am a slave to 
duty, I simply must pay some calls.” 

And when she went up to her room, to put on her 
outdoor things, she smiled again. 

“ It is ages since I called on Sarah Thrale, and Ed- 
mund is always worrying me to do it. I think I will 
go there now,” she determined. . . . “ She was so kind 
to Sue ; I am sure she will be interested in hearing some 
news about her. I will take Tora with me,” Emma de- 
cided a moment or two later ; “ a child is so useful some- 
times.” 


XVII 


“Ah! well-beloved, I never told you, 

I did not show in speech or song 
How at the end I longed to fold you 
Close in my arms; so fierce and strong 
The longing grew to have and hold you — 

You, and only you, all life long.” 

India’s Love Lyrics. 


R ichard cal vert was very late arriving 
home that night. 

^ He occupied a very small house, a kind of 
cottage, in fact, that formerly had been the residence 
of the bailiff of the big farm to which it was attached, 
and which he worked himself. 

His home was a bare-looking place, his bedroom was 
furnished with his old barrack furniture. In his din- 
ing-room there were a few good pictures, some sporting 
trophies, and a portrait of himself when he had been 
a lad. 

Lying on the table was a little note addressed to 
him. 

It was in Susannah’s handwriting, and was briefly 
worded. In it she thanked him for the books, and ex- 
pressed regret for not having seen him that day; then 
she added that she was in great trouble, as Sophie 
Benson had gone away early in the afternoon, and at 
257 


258 ■ SUSANNAH 

the time that she wrote (which was nearly nine o’clock) 
there was no sign of her return. 

“ My mother is fretting herself into a very fever of 
anxiety. I hardly know what we shall do if Sophie 
does not come back to-night. I feel ashamed to trouble 
you,” Susannah finished ; ‘‘ but if you could come over 
to-morrow morning I should be so glad. I think I 
must do something about Sophie, and perhaps you 
would advise me.” 

Calvert glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty 
minutes to eleven. 

In less than five minutes he had changed his clothes, 
and was back in the old corduroy breeches, and the 
loose, shabby tweed coat. 

He slept in the house alone, being attended by one 
of the women living about the farm, who came in 
early in the morning. 

Within half an hour he had saddled his horse and 
mounted it, and had started on the long, solitary ride. 
No doubt it would be a long ride for nothing, but it 
eased his mind to go. 

As he approached Hernstone at a good sharp trot, 
however, he caught the gleam of lights everywhere. 
This accentuated the presentiment of trouble that Su- 
sannah’s letter had conveyed to him so sharply, and had 
urged him to go to her at this late hour. As he ad- 
vanced nearer to the house, and saw the familiar dog- 
cart of the doctor standing outside, he knew that there 
was trouble in real earnest. 

Every one appeared to be awake and about ; though 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 269 

at such an hour, as a rule, like most country households, 
there would not be a sound of life anywhere. 

He walked into the house through the kitchen. One 
of the maids was there, looking nervous and half in- 
clined to cry. She began to speak volubly, but Calvert 
did not pause to listen; he moved on, and in the hall, 
walking to and fro, he found Susannah. 

She gave a little cry as she saw him, and he took her 
hands in his, and held them very closely. 

“ They won’t let me go near her,” Susannah said. 
“ They sent me away. I . . . ought to be there ! . . . 
I am her child, and I love her ; she is all I have ! ... Is 
it not cruel of them to send me away ? ” 

Calvert drew her into the dining-room. He was in- 
describably kind to her, and so calm . . . just as 
tranquil and as sympathetic as any sensible woman 
could have been. 

“ Tell me all about it,” he said. 

Susannah sat down in the chair that he put forward 
for her. 

“ It is all through Sophie,” she said ; “ she is gone 
altogether. They tell me that she is to be married to 
some man in Dover, and that she is going abroad im- 
mediately. She sent my mother a letter to-night . . . 
the most horrible letter ! If I had only known that she 
had written, I should not have allowed the letter to 
have gone upstairs ; but they have all been trained to 
obey Sophie here,” Susannah said wearily, not bitterly, 
‘‘ and she had left orders that my mother should have 
her letter when I was not near. So of course her orders 


260 SUSANNAH 

were obeyed. ... I was sitting here alone, trying to 
read, listening all the time for the sound of wheels, be- 
cause of course I thought Sophie would come back to- 
night, when I heard my mother give a strange cry, and 
I raced upstairs like a mad thing.” Susannah bit her 
lip for an instant. “ I found her lying on the floor,” 
she said hoarsely ; “ she was all drawn up ... I 
thought she was dead, Mr. Calvert! I . . . screamed 
and they came . . . and we lifted her back to the bed 
. . . and then I sent for the doctor, and when he came, 
he put me out of the room. He let cook stay, but he 
put me away; and suppose that she should die with 
those two strangers with her! . . . That is what tor- 
tures me. . . .” 

“ Stay here,” said Richard Calvert in his quiet way ; 
“ I will go upstairs and see ! ” 

He was absent a long time, and Susannah sat ex- 
actly as he had left her, with her hands pressed. tightly 
together. 

When he came back and she looked round, he gave 
her a faint, reassuring smile. 

“ I have settled everything. You are to go up in an 
hour’s time, and you shall sit in the room ; but you must 
have some one else to help you. Dr. Martin will get 
you a nurse from Minster as early as he possibly can 
to-morrow. He assures me,” added Calvert very gently, 
“ that your mother does not suffer. The reason why 
you were not permitted to go to her was that she passed 
into a kind of fit, but now she is quite calm, and you 
will be calm too, won’t you.? ” he pleaded. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 261 

Susannah got up and stretched out her hand to him. 

“ I wish I could let you know how grateful I am to 
you,” she said ; “ but your very goodness hurts me . . . 
because ... I have been so stupidly blind. It was 
only to-day that I knew what you have been doing for 
her ... for us. . . . Sophie’s letter left nothing 
unsaid.” 

She turned away, and he saw that she was crying 
now. 

He looked at her with his heart in his eyes. “ You 
ought to lie down,” he said. “ Bed is out of the ques- 
tion, but you might lie down on that couch, and rest 
for a little while. Martin is going to stay with your 
mother for the next hour or so, and I shall be here, so 
you can rest comfortably. If you want to show me,” 
he added quietly, “ that you do not resent my friend- 
ship in any way . . . you will let me take care of you 
for the moment, and try to help you in any little way 
I can. ...” 

He put the cushions into an inviting heap, and 
simply, like a child, Susannah crouched herself upon the 
couch; then, as he saw she was shivering, he brought a 
rug from one of the hooks in the hall, and he stretched 
it over her. 

“ If you want me,” he said, “ I am going to sit in the 
room opposite ... I shall hear, if you only whisper.” 

He paused an instant till he saw her eyes close ; then 
he went away very quietly, leaving the door ajar. 


XVIII 


“Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde 
Et que le monde n’est que souci?’* 

Alfred de Musset. 

C ELIA RICHLAND lingered for many, many 
weeks. 

Christmas came, and passed; and the new 
year was nearly a quarter old before the faint, flicker- 
ing heart-beat, which was the only glimmer of life in 
the shrunken, distorted figure, ceased altogether. 

Edmund Corneston had been down several times to 
Hernstone, but his wife always avoided the ordeal. 

“ If I could be of the least use, you know, I should 
go, dear,” Emma said plaintively. “ But what can I 
do.f* I shall only be upset myself, and I am sure Sue 
does not want more people at the farm; and then,” 
Emma had said with tears in her eyes, “ I do so want to 
remember my mother as she was, as I last saw her, still 
almost beautiful though so ill. . . . Don’t let me see 
her changed, as you tell me she is now, Edmund! Oh, 
it would break my heart ! ” 

And Sir Edmund never insisted. There was an at- 
mosphere of penury and pathos, of monotonous suffer- 
ing and courage, in that sad country home, that would 
ill accord with Emma and her luxurious little ways. 

262 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 263 

But though Lady Corneston abstained from active 
participation in the care of her mother, she posed for 
and obtained a considerable amount of sympathy. 
There is always something touching about a sick 
mother, and there were many to remember Mrs. Rich- 
land, and recall her beauty, now that she was dying. 

As all real gaiety was temporarily shelved, Emma 
had to fall back upon dull tea-parties and concerts, 
and an occasional woman to luncheon or dinner. 
Theatres and restaurants were quite out of the ques- 
tion (this was not her own idea, but one of those ridicu- 
lously old-fashioned things which marked Edmund’s age 
so painfully), but the gramophone was really quite 
amusing at times; and having developed a craze for 
palmistry, Emma had designed a tea-gown suggestive 
of the East and mystery, and armed with a book of 
reference, a black-velvet cushion, and a large magni- 
fying glass, would pass hours reading her various 
friends’ hands, masculine for choice, tracing their char- 
acters, and predicting their futures. Every day some 
one called from Mrs. Thrale’s house to inquire for the 
latest news of Mrs. Richland. 

“ Don’t bother to come to me,” Lady Corneston gave 
orders to her butler. “ Write out ‘ Still the same,’ or 
something like that, and show it to anybody who calls.” 

She was a good deal relieved that Sarah Thrale never 
called in person. Except for that one occasion when, 
for a particular reason, she had sought Mrs. Thrale 
(who happened not to have been at home), Emma had 
done her best to avoid Adrian’s aunt during the last 


264 SUSANNAH 

few months. Sir Edmund was very much attached to 
his old friend; and especially after the unfortunate 
rupture between Adrian Thrale and Susannah (as to 
the cause of which Sir Edmund had the very haziest 
knowledge), Emma’s husband made a point of being 
punctilious in his attentions to old Mrs. Thrale. 

Emma, of course, had her own method of arranging 
this difficulty. 

“You go and dine, dear,” she said; “she likes to 
see you . . . but I know she can’t really care to have 
me. ... I am Sue’s sister, remember, and I have no 
doubt that Mrs. Thrale will consider that Sue treated 
Nonie very badly. By the way, Edmund, do you ever 
see Nonie nowadays.? ... Is he quite buried in the 
City.? I do wish you would ask him to come and see 
us. ... It is too bad that we must lose our friend be- 
cause Susannah happens to be stupid.” 

But on this sub j ect Emma never dwelt very long ; it 
converged on danger. Sir Edmund had been only too 
glad to forget that time of madness and suspicion, 
when he and his wife had so nearly drifted apart ; but 
very often Emma felt that he would have liked to dis- 
cuss the question of Adrian and Susannah, acquainting 
himself thereby as to how the engagement had been 
brought about in the first place (Emma- had been very 
vague about this), and why the young people should 
have quarrelled in the second. 

That Sir Edmund and Adrian Thrale were the best 
of friends again was satisfactory to Emma, and that 
Susannah and Adrian were as far apart now as the 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 265 

two poles was even more satisfactory; but there 
lingered determinedly in Emma’s mind that old hanker- 
ing desire to win Adrian for herself — a desire that 
strengthened considerably as time went by. 

What annoyed her more than anything else was the 
fact that she and Adrian were so divided. 

In the old days they had been accustomed to meet 
perhaps three or four times in the course of an after- 
noon and an evening, and now Adrian Thrale went no- 
where. Naturally Emma gave him frequent reminders 
of his social obligations, but he always refused to dine, 
or lunch on Sundays. She could not draw him by any 
sort of trick, and even Sir Edmund failed in this. 

“ Determined to make up for lost time,” said Emma’s 
husband. “ He works at the office, he tells me, till 
quite late at night sometimes.” 

“ That sort of thing can’t last,” Emma remarked 
sourly. “ Nonie always took feverish fancies. You 
wait a little while, Edmund, and you will see if he does 
not get tired of drudgery. Adrian was never intended 
for business ! ” 

It was really too ridiculous, Emma agreed, that 
Adrian should carry his vexation with her to such an ex- 
tent. Even on Tora’s birthday (which she had imagined 
would have been a certain opportunity for meeting 
him) Adrian never came to the tea-party, he only sent 
a heap of presents ; and later, when the list of New 
Year’s honours was published, and Sir Edmund Cor- 
neston was made a peer, Adrian Thrale could not ap- 
parently forsake his business avocations, even for half 


266 SUSANNAH 

an hour, in order to call and offer personal congratula- 
tions, as all the other friends did. 

By glancing through her husband’s private papers 
in his study. Lady Corneston did ascertain that Adrian 
had written to Sir Edmund ; but surely she deserved as 
much congratulation, as her husband.? 

Bitterest of all to this little shallow, selfish butter- 
fly was the knowledge that it should be her sister’s in- 
fluence that had dominated and changed Adrian in so 
strange, so po>verful a fashion. 

It was extraordinarily hurtful to her vanity to have 
to confess that Susannah had been successful where she 
had failed so utterly. Susannah of all people! If it 
had been any one of the many other women whom she 
knew and hated, it would have been far less objection- 
able to Emma. . . . But Susannah! 

Sometimes when she was driving. Lady Corneston 
would meet Mrs. Thrale’s ponderous, unfashionable car- 
riage, in which the little hunchbacked woman looked so 
pathetically small and lonely; but, when she could do 
so, Emma would always avoid meeting Sarah Thrale’s 
eyes. 

It was from her husband that Lady Corneston knew 
that Adrian’s aunt had been bitterly grieved and dis- 
appointed about the broken engagement. 

“ But I always think,” Lord Corneston said on one 
occasion, “ that she still hopes they may come to- 
gether. It is wonderful how fond she is of Sue. ... I 
fancy, too, Adrian must have been very hard hit. . . 

Emma bit her lip, and changed the conversation. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 267 

She started writing reproachful little notes to 
Adrian. 

“ You know that my mother is dying,” she said in 
one of these; ‘‘surely you ought to be sorry for me! 

. . . surely you ought to let all malice and unchari- 
tableness die out of your heart. I can’t tell you how I 
fret about all that happened at the Bourne! You 
might send me just one word, to let me know that you 
are still my friend.” 

But Adrian never answered these small scented 
laments. 

“ I hate him,” Emma said to herself viciously after 
this, and just by way of emphasizing this fact, she 
bought a new frame for the latest portrait of Adrian 
which she had purloined from Tora’s nursery, and put 
the picture on the table of honour in her bedroom. 

In these days her only relief was that the Harra- 
days were at Monte Carlo, so she was spared Ada’s in- 
quisitive questions and playful sneers. It was so dull, 
so very dull, in these days of waiting and semi-mourn- 
ing, and the time could have been made so pleasant if 
only Adrian had been amiable. Of course there were 
others; but to Emma the unattainable was always the 
one thing necessary. Besides, since that scare in the 
summer she had grown very cautious. And Adrian 
could have come to the house as often as he had wished, 
which others could not do, and even the old friendship 
would have been acceptable to Lady Corneston in these 
days. It was his indifference she hated; his silence that 
infuriated her. 


268 SUSANNAH 

And then at last came the summons from Hernstone 
that had been expected so long. 

Emma turned pale, and tried to shirk the journey 
when she read the telegram; but her husband was firm 
for once. He declared she must go, and so they went 
together. 

It was a clear, cold spring day, what the country- 
folk called a beautiful day ; but Lady Corneston shiv- 
ered in her furs as they drove from the station, and 
hoped devoutly that they would not have to remain the 
night at Hernstone. 

Richard Calvert met them at the door. 

“ I grieve to tell you that you are too late. Lady 
Corneston,” he said, as Emma put her hand in 
his. “ Your mother passed away nearly two hours 
ago.” 

Emma burst into tears. “ Where is Sue? I ... I 
want Sue,” she said hysterically. Susannah appeared 
at the bend of the staircase. Her face was calm. 
There were no tears in her eyes; instead they seemed 
full of light. 

To Lord Corneston the girl had a spiritualized look. 
She had won her way right into his heart in the odd 
times they had met during the last weeks of her 
mother’s life. Susannah’s joy in the mere office of 
tending her mother had seemed to the man most 
touching. 

Now she seemed a little apart from them all, as if 
some subtle influence veiled her about. With her white 
face not even tired, and her beautiful shining eyes, she 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 269 

seemed as though charged with some message, benefi- 
cent . . . heart-lifting, divine. 

She put her arms about her sister. 

“ Come with me, darling,” she said, and she drew 
Emma up the stairs. . . . She was so calm, so gentle 
with her sister, and took off Emma’s hat and veil and 
the splendid sable coat. Then she brought a bottle of 
salts and a glass of water, and Lady Corneston tried 
to control herself ; but she was dreadfully nervous. She 
could not understand why Susannah was not crying. 
. . . After a few moments, Susannah held out her 
hand. “ Will you come and see her, darling.^ ” she 
asked. “ She has such a tranquil look. . . . Just at 
the last she opened her eyes . . . she looked at me, 
Emma ! When I said ‘ mother,’ and kissed her, it 
seemed to me that her lips moved, and that she kissed 
me back. Oh, Emma ! if you could know what that sig- 
nified to me! . . . to feel that she knew me, that she 
cared, that she kissed me once before she went I ” 

Emma Corneston heard very little of what Susannah 
said. 

The girl’s curious rapture was something she could 
not understand. Susannah drew her out on to the pas- 
sage; but at the door of her mother’s room she drew 
back. 

“ Oh, Sue, don’t let me go in I ” she pleaded, trembling 
like a leaf. “ Oh, I can’t 1 Really, I can’t I ... I have 
never seen any one dead. . . . I . . . am frightened, 
. . . Sue . . . frightened. . . 

Susannah bent to kiss Emma. 


270 SUSANNAH 

“ She loved you, dear,” she said half wistfully. 
“ She was always so proud of you, Emma ! Will you 
not just look at her once.? ... I want you to carry 
away a happy remembrance.” 

The room was in half light. The scent of some 
early violets greeted them as the door was opened. 

Emma faltered as she passed in . . . she gripped 
Susannah’s arm almost painfully. 

To her the stiff form on the bed outlined by a 
sheet was most terrifying . . . the stillness in the 
death-chamber suggestive of nothing but horrors. 

As Susannah advanced to the bed Emma drew back 
sharply. 

“No . . . no ! ” she whispered hysterically. “ I 
cannot look ! I . . . oh. Sue, let me go ! I can’t 
breathe here! . . .” 

Susannah released her sister gently. 

“ Go then,” she said; “ perhaps you are right. You 
never loved her. . . . You let her lie here . . . you let 
her die without remembrance. You have no part with 
her . . . she is mine now . . . only mine 1 ” 

Emma paused uncertainly. 

There was no bitterness in Susannah’s voice; she 
spoke calmly, but she spoke a truth; and here, in the 
very presence of the dead mother whom she had forgot- 
ten, Emma was stricken with sudden remorse, with that 
heart-searching and futile yearning to have done 
differently, which comes to so many of us when the 
chance to show love and sympathy is irretrievably 
lost. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 271 

As Susannah knelt down by the bed and bent her 
face over her folded hands, Emma, sobbing a little, 
drew cautiously nearer, and when she reached the bed 
she knelt down too. She felt the need of prayer ; . . . 
she turned her eyes away from that delicate still face 
which was so painfully familiar, so unearthly. 

‘‘ Our Father which art in heaven,” she said thickly, 
and she struggled through the other words, but she 
muddled them. 

It was the only prayer she remembered, and it was 
more like the spoken echo of a childish dream than a 
supplication. 

Vaguely in this strange moment Emma regretted 
that she was not a Catholic . . . then she could have 
said her rosary. . . . She had a beautiful rosary at 
home; it had been given to her by one of the attaches 
at the Italian embassy. She hung it on a nail near her 
bed; it was so pretty. Her mind moved on in jerks. 
She remembered once to have seen a funeral in Italy; 
. . . the coffin had been brought into the church, and 
some sisters of charity were kneeling beside it, telling 
their beads. It would have been such a help to have 
felt that each bead slipped through the fingers signified 
a prayer said ! 

She looked furtively at Susannah, and she envied her 
sister that tearless calm. The oppression of fear and 
other emotions made her gasp, and almost helplessly 
she stretched out her hand. 

Susannah caught it in hers instantly. 

“ Dear Emma,” she said. 


272 SUSANNAH 

The touch of Susannah’s hand was comforting, but 
Emma was swept a long way out of her ordinary path. 

Her mind was a jumble of terrifying things; she 
thought of her own death, of the day of judgment. 
. . . She was burdened with the weight of the evil she 
had done. It was characteristic of Emma that, even 
in her despair, she was pronouncedly selfish. 

“ I have been wicked, I know it,” she sobbed con- 
vulsively, “ but I will be good now . . . indeed . . . 
indeed I will ! . . . Oh, Sue, pray that . . . that noth- 
ing will happen to me, if I am good. . . 

Susannah pressed the pretty head down on her heart, 
and kissed Emma again and again. 

“ You will make yourself ill, darling. Don’t cry, 
Emma. ... I feel so sure she is happy ... so many 
things seem to have been said between us in the hours 
of silence. I grew to know every change in her eyes.” 

Emma shut her own eyes and rested her head on Su- 
sannah’s heart. She was not thinking of her mother, 
only of herself ... of what mattered where she was 
concerned. 

“ When people die . . . do they know everything. 
Sue? ” she whispered nervously, uneasily. 

Susannah caught her breath. 

“ Ah ! If I could answer you, dear ! ” she said, and 
there was the sound of tears in her voice. “ I think,” 
she added a moment later, “ I hope at least, that they 
know the good; that they must have heart peace . . . 
the truest, the most blessed peace. ... I should like 
my beloved mother to know that I have loved her all my 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 273 

life,” Susannah added, and her voice wavered, “ and 
never so much as when perhaps we seemed quite 
divided. . . 

Emma put up her hot, trembling lips. 

“ Kiss me. Sue,” she said, “ and tell me you love me 

too. . . .” 

As Susannah pressed her lips to her sister’s Emma 
gave a sigh. 

“ I was so afraid you would hate me,” she whis- 
pered ; “ and . . . Sue . . . you ought to hate me 
really. . . .” 

Susannah turned away for an instant, then she 
brought the glass of water from the table; her hand 
was not quite steady. 

“ Let me take you to my room,” she urged ; “ it is 
cold in here. I think, Emma dear, you and Edmund 
had better go back to town this evening. There is 
really nothing for you to do, and I fear you will be so 
unhappy here.” 

Emma felt strung up to a great deed, she caught 
Susannah by the wrist. 

“ Sue,” she said quaveringly, “ you are ... so 
good ... so good ... I want to confess to you 
... I want to tell you. ...” 

Just for an instant Susannah’s thin, pale face was 
hot with colour; just for an instant she drew back 
from her sister, then she slipped her wrist from Emma’s 
hand, and picked up Lady Corneston’s coat and hat. 

I will carry your things . . . you know your way 
to my room. ... I am afraid it looks a little out of 


274 SUSANNAH 

order, because I have not been sleeping in it for so 
long ; but there is a fire, and Marian shall bring you 
some tea. . . 

Emma bit her lip and looked at Susannah with a 
touch of sharp anger and resentment. 

She felt as if she had been denied something; Susan- 
nah ought to have listened to her, ought to have ac- 
cepted the sacrifice she wished to offer. It was not 
everybody who would have desired to be so generous. 

As she went down the passage to Susannah’s room. 
Lady Comeston felt herself gradually drifting back to 
her old mental environment. 

“Will you send Edmund up to me, please?” she 
said, as she sat down in the one easy-chair, and fingered 
her red eyelids tenderly. 

Susannah’s presence annoyed her now. 

“ I don’t want tea or anything ; I only want Ed- 
mund, . . .” she added with familiar peevishness. 

Susannah put down the sables carefully, and pulled 
up the blind — one of the servants had instantly lowered 
the blinds throughout the house — then she looked wist- 
fully at her sister a moment, and then she turned and 
went away. 

Before she passed down the stairs, she stood a little 
while by her mother’s door, and leaned her head against 
it, wearily closing her eyes. That spell of mysteriously 
sustained cMm was passing from her slowly, the won- 
derful endowment of happiness which that moment of 
newborn union and sympathy with her mother had 
brought seemed to slip from her grasp. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ^75 

As Emma had crouched in her arms weeping, fearful, 
needing her tenderest thought, the old love had swept 
Susannah about so completely that the remembrance of 
that last time she and Emma had been together had not 
even shaped itself in her mind. 

Therefore that half -theatrical attempt at confession 
had shocked Susannah ; it had come so cruelly in a sense, 
thrusting her back in one instant into that misery which 
her own courage in the first place had dulled a little, 
and the ceaseless devotion to the helpless creature she 
had loved so much, had worked almost entirely out of 
her thoughts of late. With a harsh jerk now the door 
of memory was opened, and her spirit was back in the 
old turmoil. . . . 

Lord Comeston, coming softly up the stairs, anxious 
to assure himself as to his wife’s condition, drew back 
again as he saw Susannah leaning against that closed 
door, so pathetically weary. 

He went down and waited a little while till she joined 
him, and gave him Emma’s message. 

Lord Corneston was a good deal troubled about 
Susannah. 

“ The child’s mind is overstrained altogether ; it will 
be a wonder if she is not ill after this. But she must 
come to us as soon as possible, . . .” he said to him- 
self, and it gave him a sense of real pleasure to picture 
Susannah in his care, sharing her sister’s life. 

The wisest of men make plans, and such simple, 
foolish, unconsidered things arise to upset the schemes 
of the wise now and then! 


XIX 


“Wind, have you never loved a rose? 

And, water, seek you not the sea? 

Why, therefore, mock at my repose? 

Is it my fault I am alone?” 

India’s Love Lyrics. 


M r. burke was Susannah’s strong ally. 

He came down to Hernstone that same 
evening, and took temporary possession of 
affairs. This, of course, relieved Lord Comeston a 
good deal, for as Emma had been so unwell (quite pros- 
trated, in fact, by her grief) and her husband had fol- 
lowed Susannah’s advice, and taken his wife away from 
the farm as soon as possible, it was a satisfaction to 
know that some one was with Susannah during the few 
days that elapsed before Mrs. Richland was laid in the 
grave. 

Emma’s husband, of course, returned for the funeral. 
As there was practically no property to dispose of, 
there was no will to read, nevertheless, Susannah had 
plenty of business to discuss with her old legal friend. 

“ You are not to bother about me in the least, Ed- 
mund,” she said to her brother-in-law, when he en- 
deavoured to make her pack up some things and go 
back with him to town and Emma. “ I am really hap- 


276 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 277 

pier here than anywhere else just now, and I have so 
much to arrange that I must absolutely stay on the 
spot to attend to everything. . . 

“ But I don’t approve of this, Sue,” Lord Comes- 
ton said seriously ; “ it is not at all right that you 
should be in this place alone.” 

“ I shall not be alone ; . . . cook is an old married 
woman, you know, and Mr. Burke will be down again 
in a few days’ time.” 

“ Well, I am disappointed,” said Lord Corneston. 
‘‘ I wanted you to be with Emma now as much as pos- 
sible, and Tora is simply clamouring for Auntie Sue.” 

‘‘ Bless her ! ” said Susannah. “ Edmund, you might 
let Tora come to me. ... You know I shall take care 
of her. . . . Do say ‘ yes.’ ” 

“ It is not difficult,” said Tora’s father. 

To Mr. Burke, Susannah was very explicit. 

“ I am going to stay here till the end of the summer ; 
after that I am nob sure what I shall do,” she said. 
“ I will get some one to stay with me, but I will not go 
away, so please back me up.” 

“ Don’t you think a few weeks with your sister would 
do you good.?* ” suggested Mr. Burke. 

“ No,” said Susannah very quietly, “ I don’t.” 

There was a great deal for Mr. Burke to handle and 
arrange. 

Every now and then he would get into a red-hot rage, 
when he came across some fresh proof of Benson’s cun- 
ning and dishonesty. 

“ I would give a hundred pounds, and willingly, to 


278 SUSANNAH 

be able to lay my hands on that woman,” he said very 
often. But Sophie Benson was well out of reach, and 
Susannah had neither the money nor the inclination to 
search for her. All the aching heart bitterness, the 
restless suff'ering she had endured through Sophie Ben- 
son, had been forgotten in those weeks when her mother 
had been her own, . . . when gradually, very gradu- 
ally, the barrier that so many circumstances had built 
up between that mother and herself in the past had 
fallen, and her love had come to its reward. 

It was to shield Celia Richland’s memory that Su- 
sannah refused to use means to bring Sophie Benson to 
account ; she knew the spleenish spite of the woman, 
and she feared to provoke it. For much the same reason 
she avoided meeting various members of her family, 
who, though disposed to be very kind to Susannah at 
this time, would assuredly have passed some comment 
on the dead woman, of whom none of them had ap- 
proved, and Susannah could not endure either to hear 
her mother criticised or to defend her. She dreaded, 
too, the thought of leaving Hernstone. 

And, after a time, Mr. Burke ceased to urge her to 
change her mind, and Lord Corneston, who went down 
to see her several times, followed suit. 

It was Emma who had influenced her husband in 
this. 

“ Can’t you see where matters are drifting, dear old 
thing.? ” she said affectionately. “ Of course it is a 
case with Mr. Calvert; and in a little while (I will give 
them a year) we shall hear of a quiet marriage. You 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 279 

see if we don’t ! That is why Sue won’t come to us, 
even for a week. . . . And it would be really an ex- 
cellent marriage, Edmund,” Emma said seriously. 
“ He may be a little old, but Sue always did like elderly 
men, and he is really awfully kind and nice, and would 
be so fond of her, I am sure.” 

When Lord Comeston, after a little spell of quiet 
reflection, introduced the name of Adrian Thrale, his 
wife laughed. There was spite in the sound. 

“ Oh, that was only a silly kind of flirtation,” she 
declared. ‘‘You know what a flirt Nonie used to be! 
He never could resist making love to every woman he 
met, for a few da3^s at least. 1 knew all the time he 
never meant anything serious with Sue,” Emma 
flnished lightly. 

Then Lord Corneston put on an expression which 
his wife always dreaded. 

“ You regarded this matter differently last summer,” 
he said quietly. And then with some heat he added, 
“ And if I only suspected that Thrale had been so un- 
worthy as you suggest, I should deal with him pretty 
sharply. It is not pleasant to suppose that he has 
plaj^ed fast and loose with any girl, and particularly a 
girl like Susannah ! ” 

“ Oh 1 ” exclaimed Lady Corneston in a sudden 
agony of fear, and full of impatient anger with her- 
self. “ Of course I don’t know anything definitely; I 
, . . I only judged by what Nonie used to do, . . . 
and all that, you know, . . . but you mustn’t rush 
into any mistake. Whatever he was, Nonie is quite 


280 SUSANNAH 

changed now. ... You are always telling me how 

sensible he has become, you know, Edmund.” 

But Lord Corneston looked perturbed. 

“ I should be more satisfied if I could get at the 
truth about this business of Susannah’s engagement,” 
he said slowly. “ I don’t want to misjudge any one, but 
if Thrale has behaved badly to your sister, then he 
forfeits at once any claim to my consideration. . . .” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” said Emma with a sharp sigh. She was 
horribly annoyed. 

Life was dreary enough with the season spoilt for 
her by her heavy mourning. Now, if Edmund was 
going to be suspicious, and poke his nose into dead-and- 
gone things, well, really Emma hardly knew how she 
was going to endure everything. She comforted her- 
self, after awhile, by assuring herself that Edmund 
would forget this small matter. 

But Edmund did nothing of the sort. 

“ I have been thinking a good deal about what you 
said the other day, Emma,” he remarked one evening 
at dinner (oh, those dull, doleful dinners, with no one 
to look at but Edmund; no one to admire the various 
black “creations” she donned each night!); “and it 
seems to me that you must have hit the right nail on the 
head about Adrian and Susannah. Why, otherwise, 
should Thrale suddenly cease coming here? I never 
realized till quite lately that he has not set foot in our 
house all the winter.” 

“Isn’t he awfully busy?” said Emma faintly. 
Then she stretched out her very pretty little hand to- 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 281 

wards her husband. “ Dearest,” she said, “ why bother 
yourself about this.? You work so hard, Edmund; 
really you don’t want to give yourself unnecessary 
worry, do you ? ” 

Lord Comeston caressed his wife’s hand for an in- 
stant, and smiled at her, and then he frowned. 

“ You don’t quite understand me in this, Emma. I 
have always been as fond of Adrian as if he had been 
my own son. It was the remembrance of the friendship 
that had existed between us so long that made life 
wear so black a look for a little while last summer; 
. . . and the certainty that this boy was not the 
blackguard I had imagined was almost as sweet as 
the knowledge that you, dear, were unsullied. So 
you see it hurts me to suppose, as I do suppose, that 
Adrian could be so contemptible as to propose mar- 
riage to a young and unworldly girl when he had 
not the faintest intention of keeping faith with that 
girl.” 

“ I wish you would promise me not to think all sorts 
of foolish things. . . . The engagement is over and 
done with ; it is not the first engagement that has been 
broken, and it won’t be the last,” said Lady Comeston 
half fretfully. 

“ Certainly not ; . . . but when two people separate 
so abruptly there is usually some explanation forth- 
coming as to why this was done,” said Lord Comeston 
with aggravating legal persistence, “ and this is just 
what is lacking in this case. Why was the engagement 
broken, does anybody know.? ” he queried on. “ I was 


282 SUSANNAH 

never told, and I suppose you were kept as much in 
the dark as I was ? ” 

Emma shrugged her shoulders, and pretended to 
peel a peach. 

“ I know nothing one way or another,” she said coolly, 
“ but I can guess a little ; and I guess that Sue and 
Nonie just agreed to separate because they could not 
agree to agree. ...” 

Lord Comeston lit a cigar thoughtfully. 

“ Sue is your sister,” he said after a little pause, 
‘‘ and she is very dear to me. . . .” 

Emma got up suddenly, and put her arms round her 
husband’s neck. 

“ I think I know what Sue’s feelings would be in 
this,” she said softly. “ She is awfully proud, Ed- 
mund. It would hurt her terribly if she thought any 
one was going to rake up all that has been done and is 
forgotten; more especially now,” Emma went on, lean- 
ing her fresh cheek against her husband’s. “ It would 
trouble her, because I am sure I am right about Mr. 
Calvert. Besides . . .” Emma added, after a little 
pause, “ even if you were to satisfy yourself that 
Adrian had not behaved well, what good could you do ? 
It is awfully difficult, you know, to go to any man and 
say, ‘ Look here, why didn’t you marry my wife’s 
sister? ’ If he says, ‘ Because I didn’t care for your 
wife’s sister,’ you could not call him out because he 
happened to be discreet instead of sentimental, could 
you, dear ? ” 

Lord Corneston turned and kissed his wife. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 283 

I am afraid we don’t quite look at some things in 
the same light, Emma,” he said ; “ but, however, it is too 
late for me to move in the matter now, and in any case 
I shall be spared the disagreeable task of showing 
Thrale that I doubt him, because I hear he is going to 
J apan within the next week or so, and that he means to 
stay there some time. I am afraid I can’t come up- 
stairs with you this evening, my dear; I am obliged to 
work with my secretary for an hour or so. I am sorry 
that Sue is not coming to stay with you just now, 
Emma. I think your best plan will be to write to my 
sister, and ask her to let one of her girls come up and 
stay with you for awhile. . . .” 

Emma went upstairs to her drawing-room. 

“ I must see him at once,” she said to herself a little 
feverishly. “ I shall write to him and tell him that 
Edmund is getting all sorts of ridiculous ideas into his 
head, and that he must come here at least to say 
‘ good-bye.’ He shan’t go to the other side of the 
world without speaking to me, without saying he is 
sorry for all the horrid things he said — for the rude 
way he has treated me. He may be as righteous as he 
likes when he gets to Japan,” Emma laughed to her- 
self, and her eyes were very bright, “ but he shall see 
me before he goes, and I shall soon see if I cannot make 
him forget my saint-like sister for at least a few 
minutes.” 

She wrote the letter there and then, and next morning 
she sent Melanie out to post it early. In her note she 
fixed a certain late hour on a certain afternoon, and she 


284 SUSANNAH 

came in early from her drive on that day and put on a 
white chiflPon tea-gown which was not exactly mourn- 
ing, but was very fascinating, and as the time drew near 
for Adrian to arrive she grew so impatient and nervous 
that she could not sit still, but walked ever and anon to 
the windows to peer through the blinds for the hansom 
that never came. 

Just when she was biting her lip with angry vexa- 
tion the door opened and her husband entered. 

“ Not too late for a cup of tea, I hope, Emma,” he 
said, then he held out a telegram. “ This had just 
come for you, so I brought it up; is it anything im- 
portant.J^ ” 

Emma opened the envelope with hands that trembled. 

“ Regret absolutely impossible to come,” she read. 

She turned cold; tears started to her eyes; then she 
laughed. 

“ Oh, no ! nothing important,” she said as she flung 
the telegram into the fire. “ Only from my dressmaker, 
breaking an appointment, tiresome woman ! ” 


XX 


“The earth has drunk the snow, and now are seen once more 
the blossoms of the plum tree. Now is the time when the but- 
terflies, powdered with sulphur, rest their velvety heads upon the 
hearts of the flowers.”— Judith Gautier (after Li-Tal-P4). 

I T was the busiest time with Richard Calvert, this 
early springtime, and he was out walking or riding 
hither and thither the whole day long, superintend- 
ing every bit of the farm labour himself. 

It was probably because he was so busy that he 
went very seldom to Hernstone ; he had only been twice 
since Mrs. Richland’s funeral, and each time he had 
seemed to be in a great hurry. 

Like Mr. Burke, he had ventured to suggest to Su- 
sannah that it would be a wise plan for her to have 
change of air. 

“ Why should I go ? ” the girl had answered him. 
“ Of course, it hurt me awfully at first to pass that 
door and feel that there was no one inside. And I 
have had hours and hours of horrible idleness, . . . 
but, on the whole, I am happy here. I love this place, 
and Tora is coming to stay with me in a d^ay or two. 
There will be so much for her to see. We are going to 
have a splendid time together.” 

“ Well, get out as much as you can into the fresh 
285 


286 SUSANNAH 

air,” said Calvert. “ Don’t box yourself up perpetu- 
ally in the house, going over papers, or something of 
that sort.” 

One lovely spring morning he arrived at Hernstone, 
and Susannah had just come downstairs intent on 
speaking to him, when they saw a young man alight 
from a bicycle, and advance towards the house. Cal- 
vert recognized the man. 

‘‘ Some one from the Bourne,” he said. “ I thought 
the Harradays were abroad.” 

“ I had a letter from Mr. Harraday a few days ago ; 
he wrote such kind words of sympathy,” said Susannah, 
in her soft, low voice. She felt a little disturbed by the 
advent of this messenger; she could not imagine what 
his coming portended. 

The groom touched his hat, and gave her a 
note. 

“ From Mrs. J ohn Thrale, miss,” he said ; “ and is 
there an answer, please.? ” 

Calvert moved away, and Susannah stood in the door- 
way looking at Sarah Thrale’s cramped handwriting, 
with her heart beating in her throat. Then she turned 
and went into the sitting-room. 

It was the first letter that had reached her in all 
these long months — the first direct sign that she was 
remembered ! 

Sarah Thrale, of course, had sent a telegram of con- 
dolence, as so many other people had done. It was 
only now, as she stood trying to open the envelope with 
trembling fingers, that Susannah realized how much 


CHAPTER TWENTY 287 

she had been yearning for this remembrance. Inside 
there were a few words. 

“ Dear Child ” (Sarah Thrale wrote), 

“ I am staying very near to you. I want to know if 
you will come to me, or if you will let me come to 
you? . . . Do you remember that day we travelled up 
from the sea together? You said then that perhaps 
the day would come when I might not want you. . . . 
And I answered you, ‘ I shall always want you.’ They 
were not idle words, Susannah. I don’t quite know how 
I have lived without you all this long, long time. You 
see, I had to come nearer to you. . . . George Harra- 
day offered me the loan of the Bourne for the spring 
months, and I accepted it with new life in my heart, be- 
cause I felt I should breathe the same air as you are 
breathing. If it troubles you to write now, wait, and 
answer me later; only, dear child, remember that, 
though I have been silent, my love has grown stronger, 
deeper, every day.” 

Susannah sat a moment or two, and then she went 
to her writing-desk ; then she put down the pen again. 

It was not possible to write just yet. She folded up 
Sarah Thrale’s letter, and slipped it into the bodice of 
her dress, and then she went back to the servant. 

“ Please tell Mrs. Thrale that I will write to her to- 
night,” she said. Then she went out into the clear sun- 
shine, to find Richard Calvert. 

She had something that she wanted to say to him 


288 SUSANNAH 

very particularly. She was very eager to talk to him 
just now, just to shift her mind away from the bitter- 
sweet memories that Sarah Thrale’s letter had swept 
about her. But Richard Calvert was gone. 

Jack the cow-boy told her he had ridden away about 
ten minutes. Susannah was not only disappointed ; she 
was sharply annoyed. 

Travelling through the confusion of her mother’s 
papers, Mr. Burke and Susannah had come upon a 
number of letters signed with Calvert’s name. 

From first to last he must have lent the dead woman 
a considerable amount of money. As he had put no 
claim in of any sort, it was evident that he intended that 
this matter should drop, but that was not Snsannah’s 
intention. 

“ I mean to pay all the debts,” she said to Mr. 
Burke. 

.The lawyer charged himself with several commis- 
sions for her; one of these was to obtain back the 
brooch which Emma had asked for. 

Susannah locked the brooch away in a certain small 
leather box, where once a quantity of letters had re- 
posed, letters which she had flung to the Are in those 
first days of her return to her home. 

“ I will send this to Emma,” she said to herself. 
“ Perhaps Mr. Burke will take it for me.” 

But in the press of business this little matter was 
postponed, and the brooch remained locked up in that 
box, searing the girl’s heart each time that she re- 
membered that it was there. 


CHAPTER TWENTY 289 

Susannah had been waiting all this time for Calvert 
to come, in order to approach the subject of her 
mother’s debt to him. 

It was true there was less bitterness to her in this ob- 
ligation than in some of the others. At the same time 
it hurt her most keenly to realize how his hardly made 
money had been squandered. The unostentatious un- 
selfishness of the man was a reproach to her also: re- 
membering, as she did, how she had misjudged him. 

She was quite sure that he was avoiding her now be- 
cause he objected to have this matter discussed. But of 
course, there was no possibility of permitting it to re- 
main unapproached. 

All through that day Susannah went about feel- 
ing as if she had a stolen treasure cherished close to 
her heart. 

Sarah Thrale’s letter was as beautiful to her as the 
first balmy touch in the spring air. 

Every now and then she would stand and look across 
the country to where she knew the Bourne lay, and 
once she shut her eyes, and in imagination she walked 
across the lawn in the dusk, just as she and Adrian had 
walked that bygone evening when the first note of 
sympathy had been struck between them. 

“ I could not go there,” she said to herself, as she 
woke from this little dream, ‘‘ so I will ask her to come 
here. Oh, it will be good to see her again! ... I 
thought she had forgotten . . . that she blamed me. 
... It was silly ; I ought to have known that she would 
never forget.” 


290 SUSANNAH 

Late in the afternoon she had the pony harnessed, 
and she drove herself away from Hemstone. 

She was going for the first time to Richard Calvert’s 
house. It was useless to go early, because she would 
not find him at home, but she knew he usually went back 
for what he called his dinner at a certain hour. 

He was in the stables when she arrived, seeing that 
everything was being done for the comfort of his 
horse, and he called one of the farm-helpers to come 
and take Susannah’s pony. 

“You should have let me know that you were com- 
ing,” he said with some reproach. 

“ You did not stay long enough for me to tell you 
anything this morning,” said Susannah a little im- 
patiently. “ I just went indoors for a few moments, 
and then when I came out again I found you had 
vanished.” 

“ I had to be in Torchester before noon,” he ex- 
plained. 

He led the way into the house through the porch. 

Susannah was moved at the sight of his modest home. 
It looked so cheerless, so lonely. But she pretended to 
admire most things, and she stood a long time in front 
of that portrait of himself as a boy on horseback. 
Such a handsome lad he looked ! 

“ Your eyes have not changed the least little bit,” 
she said to him. 

He smiled half grimly, and then pushed forward a 
chair. 

“ Of course, I know exactly why you have come,” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 291 

he began, as he stood with his back to the empty fire- 
place, and put his hands under his coat-tails. 

Susannah was looking better. 

Although the sun was so bright, the wind was a little 
cold, and driving through this sharp spring wind had 
brought some colour into her cheeks. But she looked 
very thin in her black dress. He liked her best in white. 

“ You are not treating me very well,” she said in 
answer to this speech. “ You must know, Mr. 
Calvert, that this is a matter that must be settled 
between us.” 

“ I know nothing of the sort,” said Calvert. “ Cer- 
tain business transactions passed between your mother 
and myself which terminated naturally with your 
mother’s death.” 

“ Oh, don’t talk like that,” said Susannah impa- 
tiently. “ Everything that belonged to my mother be- 
longs to me.” 

“ I am sorry,” said Richard Calvert imperturbably, 
“ but I must refuse to go into this matter with you.” 

Susannah’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ I don’t think you quite realize how much this hurts 
me,” she said. “ After all, I only want to do what you 
have been doing all these years. I want to make 
everything smooth, to have nothing left that might 
be a kind of reproach to my mother. She was . . . 
never a good business woman. She . . Susannah 
did not finish the sentence. 

Calvert dropped his coat-tails. 

“ All right,” he said tersely, “ you can do what you 


292 SUSANNAH 

like, but I would rather arrange matters with your 
solicitor.” 

“ It was Mr. Burke’s suggestion that I should speak 
to you,” said Susannah. “ He saw that you regarded 
the matter as a private one. How funny that you 
should have known him so well ! ” — changing the sub- 
ject quickly. 

“ We came together, you know,” said Calvert, 
“ when my old uncle died, and Hernstone passed to me. 
I like him,” he added in his short way. “ He is a 
really good fellow. Now, Miss Richland, I wonder 
what I can give you.? I won’t propose tea. ... I 
don’t believe I have an ounce of it in the place. Will 
you have some cherry brandy ? ” 

“ No, thanks,” said Susannah, getting up ; “I shall 
be having dinner so soon now.” 

“ You cannot go just yet,” said Calvert. “ The 
pony must have at least half an hour’s rest. Put on 
your coat and come and see my garden. If I cannot 
give you tea, I can pick you a few flowers.” 

“ Is this where you live? I mean,” explained Su- 
sannah, “is this your working room? I have often 
wanted to come and see you, Mr. Calvert,” she added. 
“ You know, I think you ought to have a housekeeper 
or something. You work so hard, and you are out 
so much, your home ought to be made comfortable.” 

“ Is it not comfortable? ” he asked her, looking about 
him. “ It never struck me that there was anything 
wrong,” he said. “ It certainly is not luxurious, but 
I said good-bye to luxury a great many years ago.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 293 

They passed out into the hall, and Susannah looked 
at the pictures. 

“ Show me your mother,” she said in a low voice. 

He went up the narrow, ladder-like stairs and came 
down again with a miniature and two or three photo- 
graphs in his hand. 

“ I see where you get your eyes,” said Susannah, 
“ and I think I know now why you loved her so much. 
We have something in common, you and I,” she added 
very softly as she gave him back the pictures. 

She found his garden delightful. It was not so 
spacious nor so richly cultivated as the garden at 
Hernstone, but it had the look of being loved. He told 
her that he usually did his gardening when the rest of 
his day’s work was done. 

“ Don’t you ever take a holiday ” she asked 
him. 

He shook his head. 

“ I wonder how you have lived all these years,” 
Susannah said suddenly. “ You seem to have nothing 
in your life — nothing, I mean, except business, and dull 
practical things.” 

“ Oh, you should never judge by appearances,” said 
Calvert with a smile. He was making her a nosegay 
of wall-flowers, some lilac, one or two splendid pink 
peonies, and a few lilies of the valley. “ As a matter 
of fact,” he added as he straightened his back and 
arranged the flowers very carefully, “ I have heaps of 
things in my life, and when I sit and smoke by myself 
I can dream like the rest of people.” 


294 SUSANNAH 

‘‘Have you no-one belonging to you?” Susannah 
asked as they paced on down the garden. 

“Any amount of folk,” he answered; “but the 
majority of them dropped me a long time ago. I 
think, if they told the truth, they would confess that 
they thought me a fool.” 

“ And I used to be so frightened of you,” said Su- 
sannah in her simple way. “ Really and truly,” she 
added with a little laugh, “ I thought you rather 
horrid. I got an idea that you were so mean. That 
was why I stole your mushrooms. I am so sorry I did 
not know you better. ...” 

Calvert pulled out his watch. 

“ You must be going,” he said in his quiet way. 
“ It is a good three-quarters of an hour’s drive with 
that animal of yours back to Hernstone, especially 
when he has to carry a weight like mine.” 

“ But you are not coming,” Susannah said. 

“ I think I am,” he answered; and he smiled as their 
eyes met. 

Susannah felt her heart warm towards him. 

She was full of kindly intentions. He must be 
looked after, she determined. . . . She wondered how 
she could do this. . . . There must be so many things 
that could be done for him by herself and the old 
cook. 

“ I don’t like to ask him to send his socks over to be 
mended,” she said to herself ; “ but I should like to 
make him comfortable if I could. This is such a dull, 
lonely kind of home. Poor man ! ” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 295 

When they were driving homeward, and Calvert was 
letting the pony take the road very gently, Susannah 
broke a long silence. 

“ I never knew my mother grow so attached to any 
stranger as she was to you,” she said. 

“ Well, you see,” said Calvert, “ I got into the way 
of sitting with her when you were not there. We used 
to talk about all sorts of things. I wanted to interest 
her,” he said. “ It is a great satisfaction to me to 
know that I was able to make some of her hours go 
pleasantly. When you leave Hernstone,” he said 
abruptly, a moment or two later, “ I have half a mind 
to live there.” 

“ What I should like,” said Susannah in answer to 
this, “ would be to see you go to the Bourne one day. 
Do you know,” she added a little nervously, “ that 
old Mrs. Thrale is staying there just now? It 
seems that Mr. Harraday offered her the use of the 
house.” 

Is she ? ” exclaimed Calvert with an accent of 
pleasure. “ Oh, I shall go and see her. We meet 
so seldom nowadays, but we are always good friends 
when we come across one another. I want to hear all 
about her boy,” he added. “ I always knew there was 
sterling good in Adrian Thrale. He had the right 
stuff in him when he was a youngster, but happened to 
get into a foolish set. However, from what I hear 
now, he seems to be settling down into a really good 
business man.” 

It was not until they got to the gate that led down 


296 SUSANNAH 

to Hernstone that Susannah remembered he would have 
to walk home. 

I am horribly angry with you,” she said. ‘‘ Why 
did you come ? ” 

He laughed, and his laugh had something young and 
almost light-hearted in it. 

“ I feel that I could walk thirty miles to-night,” he 
said. “ Look, what a glorious sky ! ” 

But Susannah did not look at the sky ; she was really 
troubled about him. 

“ Cannot Spens give you something to drive back 
in? ” she said. “ Won’t you come and have some din- 
ner, and then go ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ No — at least, not to-night. Perhaps if you ask 
me another time I will come. Can you drive down the 
path in this gloaming ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Susannah ; and she gathered up the 
reins ; then she held out her hand. “ I want you to 
give me a promise,” she said. ‘‘ Come and see me some- 
times. You are lonely, and so am I ; and we might as 
well share our loneliness.” 

Calvert held her hand a little more closely than 
.usual. 

She noticed that his was not very steady; but he 
made no answer to that pretty little speech. As he 
released her hand he stepped back. 

“ I am going to watch you arrive in safety,” he said. 

“ Good-night,” said Susannah, and she guided the 
pony down the rough path, making the sheep and the 


CHAPTER TWENTY 297 

lambs start up from their slumbers and run bleating 
away under the trees as she went. 

When she got to the door, and looked back and saw 
that tall figure outlined against the pale green of the 
night sky, she waved her hand to him, and then she 
saw him turn and go out of sight. 

“ He really must come more often,” she said to her- 
self. 


XXI 


“Oh! dis, fleur que la vie a fait sit6t fl^trir 
N’est-il pas une terre oil tout doit refleurir? ” 

A. DE Lamartine. 

T he meeting between Sarah Thrale and Susan- 
nah was the most natural thing in the world. 
Before she had gone to bed that night, Su- 
sannah had written a few words, and had given orders 
that the boy should take it over on his bicycle the next 
morning, and, a few hours later, the carriage from the 
Bourne had arrived, and Susannah went out and stood, 
a slim figure in her black garb, waiting to greet Sarah 
Thrale. 

‘‘ I hope you are going to ask me to luncheon,” the 
old lady said as she was helped *out of the carriage, not 
without some difficulty. “ Let me share whatever you 
are going to have. Ada Harraday’s French cook will 
put me into my grave if I stay there much longer. The 
carriage shall come back for me,” said Mrs. Thrale. 

When they were in the sitting-room, she made the 
girl speak of her mother. 

There was not the smallest suggestion of awkward- 
ness, nor did she evince a desire to avoid any particular 
subject, only when at her suggestion they rose, and, 
leaning on Susannah’s arm, she went for a little while 
298 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 299 

into the garden, Mrs. Thrale sighed once or twice; 
and, when they were down at the bottom, looking over 
the apple-orchard, that was powdered with white and 
delicately tinted blossoms now, and looked like a huge 
bridal bouquet, she pressed Susannah’s hand. 

“ Now that you are aloiie,” she said, “ I want some 
care. ... I am getting more useless than ever, Susan- 
nah. I was really ill just about Christmas-time. They 
wanted to carry me away to the Riviera, but I entreated 
to be left where I was. Beautiful as the sun and 
flowers are in the south, I don’t want to die in a strang-e 
land.” 

Oh, yes, I will take care of you ! ” said Susannah. 

But after that one little episode there was nothing 
said between them that was of any great value. 

That visit was followed by many others. Not once 
did Mrs. Thrale suggest that the girl should come to 
her; she always pretended that the drive did her so 
much good. 

And then Tora appeared on the scene, and every- 
thing went quite naturally and smoothly. 

Lord Corneston himself escorted the child down to 
the farm. 

Susannah was really touched by her brother-in-law’s 
constant thought about her. 

Though his life was full of important obligations, 
he made a point of coming to see her at least once 
a week. 

On this occasion, just when he was about to leave, 
Tora called after him in her shrill little voice. 


300 SUSANNAH 

“ Daddy, don’t forget mamma’s message to Auntie 
Sue.” 

“ I had completely forgotten it,” confessed Tora’s 
father with a little smile. He had picked up the child, 
and was holding her tenderly in his arms. “ It is some- 
thing about a brooch,” he said across the little shoul- 
der ; “ Emma said you would understand.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course ! ” said Susannah, and she turned 
very red. “ Just wait a minute and I will bring it to 
you.” 

When she reappeared with a little box in her hand 
Tora danced round her excitedly. 

“ Oh, let me see . . . do let me see ! ” she said ; “ I 
do love things that shine. Daddy, do let me see ! ” 

With a laugh. Lord Corneston took the pretty 
brooch from out of the tissue paper. 

“There, that shines, doesn’t it, Tora?” he said. 
“We picked it up in Italy last year,” he said to Susan- 
nah. “ Emma saw it in an old curiosity shop, and, of 
course, wanted it. What Emma wants she generally 
gets,” Lord Corneston added smilingly. “ I had it 
done up a little, but it is really old work.” 

Susannah was looking across the fields. Something 
was dancing in front of her eyes. It was not the 
sparkle of the diamonds. Something was wringing 
her heart; it was not that hot, jealous hatred of this 
little ornament that had hurt her so often before. 

Tora and she stood together and waved their hands 
till Lord Corneston and the fly were out of sight ; then 
Tora reproved her aunt. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 301 

“ Why do you cry when my daddy goes ? ” she said. 

Your eyes is all wet. I have come here to make you 
happy,” continued Tora. “ Daddy told me such a lot 
of fings in the train that I was to do. He said I was 
to ask you to let me be with you all the time if I 
was not a nuisance. What is a nuisance, Auntie 
Sue.?” 

Susannah laughed away her tears. 

“ Here comes one,” she said — “ your Nanny with a 
pinafore to keep the dirt away from your frock.” 

The new nurse was an old one by this time, a very 
comfortable, affectionate woman. 

“ Did you tell Auntie Sue about the little French 
girl in the carriage coming down with us. Miss Tora ? ” 
she said. “ She spoke in French ‘and English too, 
didn’t she.? ” 

This remark upset Tora, who had linguistic ambi- 
tions, and who had invented a language of her own 
because she could never understand what her mother 
said to her maid, and objected to be left out in the 
cold. 

“ What she spoke,” she said loftily, “ was her busi- 
ness. I don’t care whether she said French or whether 
she did not. A little French girl is never as nice as 
a little English girl, is she, Auntie Sue.? ” 

When they were digging in the garden — Tora’s own 
garden, which had been kept for her religiously all this 
time — the child suddenly pulled a little gold cross and 
chain out from the neck of her frock. 

“ See! that’s what Nonie gived me,” she said. “ It’s 


302 SUSANNAH 

a good-bye cross. I’m to wear it till I grow big, and 
he comes back to England.” 

“ Back to England.? ” said Susannah, who was on her 
knees digging holes for Tora to plant with some 
branches she had culled from the lilac bushes. “ Is 
... is he going away, Tora ? ” 

“ Oh, my dear ! ” said Tora with her most grown-up 
manner, “ didn’t you know that? I thought everybody 
knowed that. He’s going . . . oh! a long way, to a 
place ... I don’t know the name. Auntie Sue, but he 
telled me that the people was like those painted on the 
tea-cups he gaved me ever so long ago.” 

“ When did you see him ? ” asked Susannah in that 
same kind of whisper. 

“ I can’t ’xactly say,” said Tora musingly ; she 
wrinkled her brows. “ I fink it was one day last week 
in the park. Yes, it was one day in the park. I was 
playing with my ball, and I just runned into Nonie. 
He said he had come there on purpose to catch me. 
Wasn’t it funny? Auntie Sue, you must put some 
water in that hole, you know, or else it will never . . . 
never be a tree.” 

Susannah poured in so much water that a stream ran 
down the bed and swamped the path; but at that mo- 
ment, happily, the maid came to announce that Mrs. 
Thrale was in the sitting-room, and Tora ran off at full 
speed to welcome her. 

Richard Calvert came, too, just as they were having 
tea, and Tora condescended to be very friendly with 
him. She saw a difference in him. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE SOS 

“ You’ve had your hair cut,” she said, after she had 
studied him in heavy silence for a moment or two. 
“ Doesn’t he look smart. Auntie Sue.^ ” 

Mr. Calvert smiled into Susannah’s eyes, feeling an 
extraordinary elation fill him as he saw how her win- 
someness had come back to her; as he heard a sound 
like a bird’s note in her voice. 

It was the first time he and Mrs. Thrale had met 
at Hernstone. He had been to call on her at the 
Bourne, but had missed her, as she had been driving 
at that time across to see Susannah. 

After tea Tora had gone with Sarah Thrale to see 
the trees that had just been planted in her gar- 
den. Susannah and Calvert were alone for a few 
moments. 

“ You are looking so well to-day,” he said to her 
abruptly. . . . “ I am so glad. ... You match the 
spring when you look as you do now.” 

Susannah blushed a little and smiled. 

“ It is Tora who has done me good,” Then a sigh 
fluttered from her lips. “ Poor little Tora ! She has 
wanted so much to go to that closed room, and when 
I told her Grannie had gone away she would not believe 
me at first. It must be hard for the child to picture 
my mother moving. . . . Her remembrance of Grannie 
is a sick woman, a couch, and a dull room where she 
might not play, or speak above a whisper. It is very 
sweet to me to have Tora once again,” Susannah said 
hurriedly. “ She makes life wear a different expression 
altogether. She is so happy ... so very happy.” 


304 SUSANNAH 

“ That is the golden prerogative of youth,” said 
Calvert with a smile and a sigh. 

He had intended staying on that afternoon, as he 
promised to look into some gardening matters for Su- 
sannah, but when the carriage came for Mrs. Thrale, 
she expressed a wish to have his company on her home- 
ward drive, and of course he was at her service. 

They chatted on about all sorts of things as the 
carriage rolled along, and Calvert never imagined that 
there was something potent to himself working in the 
old woman’s thoughts. 

When the Bourne was reached, and he helped her to 
alight, she asked him to sit with her awhile. 

“ I have a little hesitation in inviting a man to his 
own house,” Mrs. Thrale said with a smile that made 
her small, wizened face so charming at times. “ What 
a dear old place it is! Have you never a grain of 
envy .in your heart, Richard, for the money that gives 
these strangers the right to call your old home theirs ? ” 
He answered “Yes 1 ” in his quiet, curt way. 

“ And is there no chance ... no hope that you may 
come back here some day ? ” 

They chose to sit in the hall that was even more 
charming, with a log-fire blazing on the wide, old- 
fashioned hearth, than it had been in summer. 

Richard Calvert waited on his old friend with that 
tenderness, that quick grace of manner which had 
awakened so much surprise at first in Susannah’s mind. 

Now she knew that however shabby he might look, 
no matter what menial work he might attempt, he was 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 305 

always refined, chivalrous, and almost old-fashionedly 
considerate and courteous. 

“ Many things have changed for me of late,” he said 
in a dreamy kind of way, as he stood with one foot on 
the massive copper fender. “ You know,” he went on, 
rousing himself a little, “ I came into a tidy sum of 
money the other day, when poor old Markhurst died. 
I thought at first that I would renounce the care of his 
grandson; but when I saw the lad, my heart went out 
to him, and so I took up the trusteeship. Fortunately, 
we have steered clear of a lawsuit that was threatened. 
Sometimes of late,” said Calvert, “ I have dreamed 
that I saw myself back here . . . with young Sholto 
Markhurst running wild about the place, just as I used 
to do when I was his age.” 

“ You should have boys of your own, Richard,” said 
Sarah Thrale. 

She was looking at him appreciatively, affection- 
ately. Standing in the old hall, he looked absolutely 
in keeping with his surroundings. 

His garments were old-fashioned as usual, but there 
was something indescribably distinguished about his 
tall, well-knit figure. The red look had gone from his 
face with the summer heat, but his skin was well tanned. 

“ Oh,” he said with a nervous little laugh, “ marriage 
is for the young, and I am old. Look at my white 
hair ! ” 

“You are exactly forty-seven,” said Mrs. Thrale; 
“the sensible age for a man to marry — at least,” she 
amended quickly, “ for some men. I consider you have 


306 SUSANNAH 

been wasted all these years, Richard. ... You have 
such a splendid nature, such a golden heart . . . the 
true son of your dear mother. . . . Just think how 
good you would have been to a wife.” 

“ But,” he said a Httle nervously, “ I could never 
have asked any woman to share the kind of life I have 
lived these last many years. I have old-fashioned ideas 
about women ; I think they should be well protected, that 
there should be no rough winds, no hardship. . . . 
Have you forgotten that I have lived as a farm- 
labourer for nearly five and twenty years.?” He 
changed his tone. “ Harraday has this place for an- 
other eighteen months or so. He wants to take it on 
for longer, but by that time I might be able to see my 
way to keeping it on myself. But of course, even if 
I were to come back, I could never do things as they 
are done now. Nevertheless . . .” He smiled, and 
did not finish the sentence. 

Sarah Thrale gave him a smile back. 

“ Let me be one of your first guests, Richard,” she 
said softly ; and then she sighed, and he looked at her. 
She was resting back in the chair, and had closed her 
eyes, and all at once he saw that she had aged con- 
siderably, that there was a look as of recent suffering 
traced on her thin face. 

As if she understood that he was studying her with 
such real concern, she opened her eyes, and bent for- 
ward. 

“ I am fretting my heart out, as they say in books ; 
that is what is the matter with me,” she said with an 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 307 

attempt at her old dry manner. Richard Calvert sat 
down beside her, and she put one of her tiny hands in 
his. 

“ I have a fancy to have my boy follow me to my 
grave,” she said. “We old folk are so selfish . . . 
so unreasonable! For it is foolish to care what hap- 
pens when we are dead ; but I do care, Richard. ... I 
do care 1 ” Then very suddenly she said, “ And I can’t 
ask him to stay. His heart is set on going, and it is 
the best thing possible for his future that he should 
go. . . . That is why I fret. . . .” Calvert stroked 
that small, white, wrinkled hand. 

“ Of course Adrian will not go,” he said quietly. 
“No doubt you have deceived him ; you have let him 
imagine that it is your wish that he should go, that 
you entirely approve. ... I remember,” he added with 
a tender smile, “ my dear mother used to be artful in 
this kind of way at times.” 

“ Everything is arranged,” Sarah Thrale said 
quietly. “ He is to start by the end of May. And 
I would let him go almost happily, Richard, if I did 
not know that he has said to himself that he will never 
come back, or at least not for many, many years.” 

“ Why should he not come back.? ” asked Calvert in 
his straightforward way. “ He has everything to 
bring him. In fact, he must come ... he will be 
wanted here. . . .” 

Mrs. Thrale looked into the kind eyes that seemed of 
late to have borrowed some of their former youthful 
fire and colour. 


308 SUSANNAH 

“ You know what has changed Nonie so much? ” 

Calvert shook his head. 

“ I live out of the world,” he answered ; “ I thought 
it was a natural reaction. We all play with life at 
the commencement, but there comes a time to most of us 
when play is wearisome and unprofitable. That time 
came to me long before I was forced to turn round and 
work for my daily bread; so it was with Adrian, I sup- 
pose. . . .” 

“ In a sense, I believe that is true,” said the old 
woman. “ But there was another reason. You heard, 
did you not, that he was engaged? Most people heard 
this ? ” 

“ I did not hear it,” said Calvert. 

“ And yet you were intimate with poor Celia Rich- 
land ; . . . you saw her daily when Susannah was away 
with me.” 

“ What has that to do with Adrian? ” he asked. 
Then he released Mrs. Thrale’s hand and rose. “ Mrs. 
Richland used to talk generally about herself ... or 
else of old times. I cannot recollect that she once men- 
tioned her daughter’s name to me,” he said in his old 
stiff, curt way. 

And then Sarah Thrale told him the story of the 
engagement which had been brought about in this very 
old house; had given her such real delight, but had 
lasted such a little while. It would have surprised Lady 
Corneston to have listened to the story Sarah Thrale 
told. 

“ Now you see why Nonie wants to go to the other 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


309 


side of the world,” she said wistfully. “ I never ques- 
tion him ... we never speak of Susannah. It would 
not be easy to speak of her.” 

“ Of course not,” said Richard Calvert. He stood 
by the fireplace once more. The evening was begin- 
ning to fade. 

“ You will stay and dine, Richard, won’t you? ” Mrs. 
Thrale said after a little pause, and he assented. Sud- 
denly he was conscious of a curious dread of being 
alone. 

There would be so many years of loneliness. 

At dinner Mrs. Thrale lifted her glass once. 

“ Let us drink to the days of your return here, 
Richard,” she said. 

He shook his head with a faint smile as he clinked his 
glass against hers. 

“ Oh, that was only a dream . . . and it will prob- 
ably never be realized. . . . Let us drink to Adrian and 
his future. May all happiness be his.” 

As they set down their glasses they were silent; then 
Richard Calvert looked upwards to where his mother’s 
pictured face seemed to look at him with tears in her 
eyes. 

“ After all,” he said, as if to himself, it is in our 


V 


dreams that we live our real lives ! ” 



XXII 

“Perhaps you will tell me: ‘Art thou sure that thy legend 
is the true one?’ What matters the reality outside of me, if it 
has helped me to live, to feel that I am and what I am?” 

— Charles Baudelaire. 


T hree or four days later Susan got a note 
from Mr. Calvert. 

“ Will you and Tora give me the pleasure of 
lunching with me in Torchester to-morrow ? ” he wrote. 
“ Perhaps you had better bring nurse, too, as I want 
your help. ... I have several odds and ends that I 
must buy, and as you were so good as to say you would 
help me in anything of this nature, I am going to 
venture to claim fulfilment of this promise. I will meet 
you in Torchester at Backster’s Library at one o’clock.” 
Tora was wildly excited. 

She made her nurse spread out her entire wardrobe, 
so that Auntie Sue could make a choice of a suitable 
garment for this great occasion. 

“ What a pity, my dear,” she said to Susannah, 
“ that you can’t wear my clothes. I have such a lot 
of fings, and you haven’t got nothing.” 

Then Tora discussed the prospective menu. 

“ Will there be chicken or lamb, I wonder? I know 
what Vd like. Auntie Sue ... a dinner all of choc- 
310 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 311 

olate and banambos ! I shan’t wear a bib, . . Tora 
decided, “ and I know Mr. Calvert will let me have a 
real knife.” 

Susannah laughed. 

“ Perhaps Mr. Calvert will let you carve,” she sug- 
gested. 

She sent back word that Tora and she would be en- 
chanted. 

“ I hope you have plenty for me to do . . . I really 
do want to be useful to you in some way or other,” she 
wrote. 

The drive to Torchester was a lengthy operation 
in these days, for the pony Firefly had grown fat and 
lazy for lack of exercise, and considerably belied his 
name. Whenever they came to a hill, Susannah and 
the nurse got out, and Tora held the reins, so, as the 
road was steep from the village to the town, they gen- 
erally had to start very early. 

It was only Tora who was impatient. 

“ I’m getting so hungery,” she said once ; and she 
pressed both her hands over her white serge coat. 

‘‘ I have not put my darling into mourning,” Emma 
had written in the note the nurse had brought with 
her. “ Please don’t let her wear any black ribbon, and 
don’t, please, dear, talk too much about our dear 
mother. Tora is so sensitive, and things about death 
and graves and so on are so bad for little children’s 
minds. I know you won’t mind my saying all this, will 
you? ” 

Susannah did not trouble to write and reassure 


312 SUSANNAH 

Emma ; such correspondence as passed between Hem- 
stone and that small London house went in the form 
of occasional letters to or from Lord Corneston. 

Nurse produced a biscuit to appease Miss Tora’s 
hunger, but the little girl shook her curls resolutely. 

“ I mustn’t spoil my lunch, must I ? ” 

At length they came in sight of Torchester, and 
the square grey battlements of the cathedral tower rose 
like delicate lacework from out of a setting of fresh 
foliage and far-away fields. Taller, and more stately, 
and more beautiful it grew each moment, till it stood 
above them, majestic and serene, with its grace of cen- 
turies, a sentinel watching over the little world clus- 
tered at its base — a classic monument to the faith of 
ages. 

‘‘ I’m getting so ’cited,” said Tora with a gasp. 
And, indeed, she bounced about so much that Susannah 
had to put her arm round the little white-robed figure 
to prevent it from falling out. 

They drove first to the stables where they always 
put up the pony, and then made their way to the 
straggling High Street, and Tora caught sight of their 
host first, and rushed at him in headlong fashion. 

She had quite lost her fear of Richard Calvert. 

He gave Susannah a list, and handed her an old- 
fashioned purse. 

“ The woman who looks after me said these things 
were indispensable. Apparently I have been living 
without actual necessities all this time,” he observed 
drily. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 313 

“ I know you have been very uncomfortable,” 
said Susannah, as she scanned the list. “ I suppose 
we had better go to the county stores for these 
things.” 

“Do you mind going alone he asked. “I have 
ordered luncheon for two o’clock at the hotel, and I 
thought perhaps you would let me take Tora down to 
the heath just beyond the station. There is a kind of 
fair going on there, with wooden donkeys, and real 
ones, and gipsies, and all sorts of delights.” 

Tora clapped her hands. 

“ You go. Auntie Sue . . . don’t you fidget . . . 
Mr. Calvert will take care of me. . . .” 

Susannah, of course, gave her consent. 

“ Shall I come and join you.? ” she asked. “ I shall 
not be very long.” 

Richard Calvert pondered. 

“No . . . when you are finished, you might go and 
wait for us in the cathedral garden. . . .You know 
that little corner that faces the old priory . . . you 
might sit there. It will be out of the wind, and you 
cannot stay alone at the hotel.” 

Susannah watched him go, with Tora’s dainty little 
figure dancing beside him. 

It really gave her immense pleasure to undertake the 
purchase of the various commonplace things entered on 
the list. 

She smiled when she came to a teapot. 

“ That’s one for Mr. Calvert, and two for the woman 
who serves him,” she said to herself. But she did not 


314 SUSANNAH 

smile when she was shown a teapot with Oriental figures 
on it. 

“ It is cruel to go so far away, when she only lives 
for him,” she said to herself unsteadily, as she folded 
the list and walked out of the busy, important little 
shop. ‘‘ She has never spoken his name ; but I have 
seen a change in her each time we have met. Without 
knowing anything, I have felt that she was grieving. 
. . . How I wish I could help her ! ” 

Behind her black gauze veil some tears gathered. It 
was a relief to turn out of the narrow, tortuous street, 
that was always so busy, into the quieter atmosphere 
that surrounded the cathedral. She glanced at the big 
clock as she passed in under the old carved gate. 

She had only been twenty minutes, and assuredly 
Tora would not be separated from the roundabouts 
very easily. 

“ Mr. Calvert little knows what he has undertaken,” 
Susannah said to herself. 

She did not enter the cathedral. There was a cheap 
excursion to Torchester that day, and streams of sight- 
seers were pouring in through the old Norman doors. 

Susannah was selfish in some things. When she went 
to the cathedral, she wanted it all to herself. 

She walked slowly to the seat Calvert had spoken 
about, and here she threw back her veil. The day was 
glorious; there was something indescribably joyous in 
the air, and the sunshine that bathed the quadrangle 
and the old stone path she was treading was as hot 
as though summer had come in full majesty once again. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 315 

Susannah sat down and looked over a kind of garden 
to where the broken arches of the old monastery stood 
out against the clear blue of the sky. 

Very few people invaded her corner; now and then 
one or two approached, but after a moment they passed 
away again. 

Susannah saw the arches in a blur after a while. 

“ I don’t want him to go to Japan,” she said to her- 
self brokenly ; “ I want him to stay in England. 
Though I shall never see him again, if he stays here 
I can always know something about him. ... If he 
goes so far away, it will be like death . . . worse 
than death, . . . because I cannot even pray at his 
grave.” 

She got up as she heard the voices of some approach- 
ing children; they were making for the seat in the 
corner. 

‘‘ I will walk up and down,” said Susannah, and she 
drew down her veil again and turned away. 

The children jumped and shouted and were very 
merry in that quiet corner — that corner that was made 
for tears and sad, sweet memories. 

The penetrating warmth of the sun gave Susannah 
a kind of tangible comfort. She grew quieter with 
that restrained calmness which was the result of strenu- 
ous self-control and cultivated patience. 

And after a while she looked ahead to catch the first 
glimpse of Tora’s small white person, or Calvert’s tall 
figure. She did not see them, but suddenly she saw 
some one else. Susannah stood still with a jerk, and 


316 SUSANNAH 

caught her breath; and then that hot, living warmth 
of the sun seemed to wrap itself suddenly about her 
heart, making the blood throb and dance in her veins. 

Adrian, who was strolling towards her, his hat over 
his eyes, saw only a slight woman’s figure in heavy 
mourning before him, and he glanced half curiously at 
this lady, who stood so directly in his path; in fact, 
he was wondering how he should pass her, when Susan- 
nah spoke. 

“ Don’t you know me.^* ” she said faintly. 

He turned sharply ; his expression was purely incred- 
ulous at first, then it was a mixture of bewilderment 
and ioy. 

“ Sue!” 

He gripped her hand as in a vice. 

“ Sue 1 ” he said again ; then he said, “ I couldn’t see 
you . . . your veil is so thick, and the hot sun was 
making me dream. . . .” 

She lifted her free hand and put back the veil, and 
Adrian stood and looked at her with an embrace in his 
eyes. 

“ I was thinking of you at that very moment,” he 
went on ; “ but when do I not think of you.^ And you 
spoke . . . you actually spoke. Sue ! ” 

“ I actually spoke,” she said, not very conscious of 
what she did say ; then she plunged into an explanation. 
‘‘ I ... am waitinrr for Mr. Calvert and Tora . . . 
he told me to come «re . . . we are lunching with 
him.” 

“ I am to lunch with him too,” said Adrian. He still 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 317 

had possession of Susannah’s hand, “ and I found a 
note waiting for me at the hotel, saying he would be 
back in an hour’s time. I have come down from town 
on purpose to see Dick. He says he has something of 
great importance to discuss with me — something about 
the old lady; so of course I came, although I really 
have no right to be away from the city. ... I have 
every moment of my time cut out. If I had only known 
that I was to have such happiness as this . . . how 
I should have cursed the slow train ... I was a bit 
bad-tempered as it was. . . .” 

“ You looked cross,” said Susannah. She made no 
attempt to draw away her hand, and as the school- 
children came racing away from that corner they 
turned and went back towards it. 

“ Cross, no ! . . . unhappy, yes ! . . . Oh, Sue, what 
you have made me suffer ! . . .” 

Her lips trembled. 

“ I have wanted to see you ... to ask you to for- 
give me, oh so many times,” she said earnestly; but 
she could hardly speak clearly, she was trembling so 
much. 

Adrian, too, was trembling; he had turned pale. 

They paced on in silence till they reached the comer. 
He kept her hand in his, and when they were alone, with 
only the sky, and the trees, and the moss-covered ruins 
to note what they did, he drew her a little nearer, and 
looked into her face with such intensity that Susannah, 
colouring hotly, bent her head and tried to evade his 
eyes. 


318 SUSANNAH 

“ No,” said Adrian in a whisper, “ don’t turn away 
from me, Susannah dearest. . . 

He sat down on the bench and drew her down beside 
him. 

“ I have lived with your eyes looking into mine. 
... I have held you so often in my arms, kissed you 
so often in imagination,” he whispered on, “ that I 
can hardly yet believe that you are really you, that 
you have been given back to me, that you are no dream 
vision! When you sent me away that awful night 
... I thought I had lost you for ever . . . you 
seemed to hate me . . . you were so cruel. . . .” 

“ I believed, I thought I . . . was doing right,” 
said Susannah with lips that quivered. 

“ And now,” said Adrian in that same caressing 
whisper, and he smiled ; the glory of the sun seemed to 
have passed into his eyes — “ now you know differently. 
Dear little white soul 1 You need not tell me anything. 
A long time ago I made a good guess as to what had 
happened. ... It was horribly rough on me, but I could 
do nothing. I saw no way open to me in which to bring 
this truth home to you. I don’t know how this has come 
to you now. ... I don’t care I ... I only want to be 
sure that you believe in me. I only want to hear you 
say that you care for me just a little.” 

But Susannah could not find her voice. 

He got up, and, drawing her up too, he suddenly 
clasped her in his arms. 

“ Do you love me.? ” he asked. And Susannah an- 
swered him. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 319 

With all my heart . . . with all myself ! . . . 
Oh, Nonie!” she said passionately, “I am afraid I 
love you too much. ... You come before everything 
. . . even . . . when ... I thought you unworthy, 
you stole into my prayers. There was no time, except 
when my mother was dying, that I have been able to 
forget you! ...” 

She put her face on his breast for an instant, then 
she tried to withdraw from his arms. ^ 

“We are . . . some one may come . . . I . . 
she faltered. 

But Adrian only held her more firmly. 

“My God! Life is worth living, after all!” 

He lifted her face to his, and kissed her eyes and lips 
as he had kissed them once before, but so differently 
this time. 

“ Kiss me,” he said imploringly. 

And Susannah kissed him on the lips, and then, red- 
hot with blushes, pulled down her veil. Adrian let her 
go from his arms, but kept one of her hands imprisoned 
in his as they moved away. 

“ Leave me this ! ” he begged with his eyes and lips 
smiling. “You have tantalized me too much! You 
can’t think what it cost me to behave ceremoniously 
with you. Sue. When we had only known each other a 
few hours . . . you got right into my heart. Do 
you remember when I doctored you for your headache.? 
Honestly, it was as much as I could do not to take you 
in my arms as I should take Tora, and kiss your fasci- 
nating, childlike face. . . . And when we were out on 


320 SUSANNAH 

the rocks in the dusk. . . . Well, really ! that evening 
o . . I had the greatest difficulty in keeping myself in 
hand. I wanted to eat you that time ! ” 

Susannah laughed. 

“ Talking of eating . . . surely it is getting late. 
They ought to be here now.” 

“ I don’t care if they never come,” said Adrian. 
“ Oh, Sue, you have changed the world to me ! . . . 
Wicked and sweetest Sue. ... You made me old . . . 
you made me hard. . . .You turned my hair white! 
. . . Look I ” He took off his hat, and the sun made 
his brown crisp curls glint as with gold. Then his mood 
changed and his smile went. “ And you have had such 
need of me all this time. Sue ! One night, the night of 
your mother’s funeral ... I went to your home. I 
did not dare go very near. ... I was afraid, if you 
had seen me, you would have driven me away ; but I had 
to go. Sue ... I wanted to feel that I was near you 
even in that cold, far-off way.” 

Susannah’s happy eyes were wet. 

“ Oh I If I had only known ! ” she said. 

She took his hand and carried it to her lips; then 
she moved on a little hurriedly. ‘‘ Oh, there they are ! 
. . . Tora sees us. ...” 

Adrian laughed. 

“ Now for some questions,” he said. Then hurriedly 
he added, ‘‘ Was it merely chance, a wonderful chance, 
that brought you back to me like this, or did Dick sud- 
denly take it into his head to play the part of a good 
fairy, I wonder.? ” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO S21 

Susannah was smiling and waving her hand to Tora. 
She looked round as Adrian said this. 

“ Mr. Calvert? But how could he have done this? 
Why should he? He knows, of course, that I know 
you, but we have never spoken of you. ... I like 
him awfully.” Susannah added warmly, “ He is so 
thoughtful ... so unselfish ... so thoroughly good. 
You can’t think how kind he has been to me; but he is 
practical and very hard-working and reserved ... I 
should imagine he was the last in the world to take any 
interest in sentiment or to believe in . . . in . . . love.” 

Adrian looked dreamily at her; his pulses thrilled as 
he saw how his ardent eyes could bring the colour into 
her delicate skin, and drive it away again ; how her soul 
itself seemed to look at him through her eyes. 

“ Poor Dick ! ” he said with pity. 

Tora had her hands full of wooden toys and paper 
ribbons, which she festooned about Adrian as he 
cuddled her. 

“ You may carry me,” she observed graciously. “ I 
is so tired; but it was perfectly glor’ous. Auntie Sue, 
and Mr. Calvert says I’m to go and dig in his garden 
. . . and I do want my lunch. Mr. Calvert says if I 
will let him cut up my meat, I may serve the pud- 
ding. . . .” 

“ You see I brought her back safely and soundly,” 
said Calvert to Susannah. 

She thanked him, and walked on with him a yard or 
two in advance. 

‘‘ I was thinking perhaps we might all drive out with 


S22 SUSANNAH 

Thrale to see his aunt, after lunch,” Mr. Calvert said 
in his matter-of-fact way. “ I brought him down here 
because I am going to try and persuade him to make 
a change in his plans. Mrs. Thrale is fretting a good 
deal about this proposed journey to Japan. I fancy 
he could get some one to go in his place ; and, after all, 
he can work as hard as he likes in the London office. 
... I forgot to tell you, by the way,” Richard Cal- 
vert added abruptly, “ that I had asked Thrale to come 
and meet me to-day. ... I hope you don’t mind. Miss 
Richland. ... I know you would not care to meet any 
strangers just now, but Adrian Thrale is scarcely a 
stranger.” 

Susannah coloured behind her veil, then took courage. 

“ I . . . we . . . are so glad to meet,” she said, 
and she laughed shyly, happily; then more shyly still 
she said, “ I ... I am going to be his wife some day.” 

Richard Calvert stopped and held out his hand sud- 
denly. 

“ Ah ! . . . that is good news indeed ! I congratu- 
late you both from my heart.” 

He pressed Susannah’s hand kindly. 

“ God bless you,” he said. He spoke as though she 
were a child, but something in the tone of his voice 
made Susannah look at him a little nervously — gave 
her a sense of sudden yet vague regret. It seemed to 
her that he looked more tired and weather-beaten than 
he usually did ; but perhaps this was because the strong 
spring sunshine flooding him about was pitilessly 
searching. Once again she felt so sorry for him and 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO S2S 

his life of self-elected loneliness. But Calvert was evi- 
dently unconscious that he aroused such feelings. They 
paused for Adrian and the nurse to join them. 

“ I will take Tora,” he said. “ Thrale, you go on 
with Miss Richland ... we will follow.” 

But Tora clung to Adrian’s hand, and so Richard 
dropped behind. As the others went out through the 
gateway, the child’s voice chirping like a little bird, 
he paused, and, turning, he looked at the old grey build- 
ing which had defied the rust of time, and had stood 
valiantly erect through the storms and winds of cen- 
turies. The clear sunlight, that found such flaws in 
his prematurely aged physique, bathed the cathedral in 
a golden sheen . . . marked only the beauty of the 
structure, the marvellous work of men turned to dust 
these hundreds of years gone. 

Richard Calvert felt for a moment, as he stood there 
with a certain late-born exquisite hope lying cold and 
dead in his heart, that he was infinitely older than the 
cathedral. Then the mantle of indifference, which was 
but another name for resignation, fell upon him once 
again. With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he turned 
and went after his guests. 

When he reached the High Street, he glanced up at 
the weather-cock on the summit of the gateway to note 
the direction of the wind; it was an old habit, and all 
at once he had a desire to go back to the old things. 

At luncheon Tora revelled in all sorts of forbid- 
den joys. 

Nurse was absent, and Auntie Sue seemed very much 


824 SUSANNAH 

asleep, so Tora eat for once all those things for which 
her soul had longed this many a month, and the thought 
of the morrow had no dread for her. 

“ The wind is shifting,” said Richard Calvert, as cof- 
fee was brought; “ it will probably rain before night- 
time.” 

Adrian was looking into Susannah’s eyes. 

They said nothing, because they did not hear the 
remark. Moreover, what would it matter to them if 
rain did come.? Had not the sunshine found a home 
in their hearts ? 

“ Let us go down to the garden and see the four little 
fox-terrier puppies,” said Calvert to Tora. 


THE END 


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